Karma
by RulerOfAllThatIsEvilChiFlowers
Summary: What if Derek had never opened the door on that rainy night? The guilt of leaving his wife out in the cold and damp night never tapped his conscience. What if Addison was left to wander the streets of New York City? What would have happened to her then? What would her life become? Prior to Grey's Anatomy. An Addek FanFiction/Backstory/AU. Room, the book and movie, inspired. #Addek
1. Chapter 1 - 2,553 days

**Chapter 1 - 2,553 days**

 _2,553 days. . ._

 _What goes around, comes around..._

It's a proverb that holds true to her heart. It's accurate. _Very much_ _so_. It's real. _Her_ _reality_. It's factual. _Again, it is what her life has become now._

Sadly, she's living proof of her own salacious actions. It's the downfall, the consequence of feeling _oh-so_ lonely that one melancholy night.

But, technically, it wasn't only that one night she had felt so lonely, it had been months and months too long. A repetition of going to bed alone with half a bottle of Cabernet in her system. A repetition of staying at the hospital longer than any of them should. A repetition of _how was your day_ , asking without an intent of listening or even caring - habitual. Routine, it was what's expected and that was that. And that night was her undoing, a lapse of judgement.

 _Karma._

What else can she say other than karma's a real bitch.

It's a Hindu and Buddhist belief, stating that the sum of a person's actions determine the person's next incarnation in samsara, also called, the cycle of death and rebirth.

The concept had fascinated her. She had learned it on her trip to India with her parents a very long time ago, some two decades ago. It was one of the handful of trips her parents had decided to take her and her brother along with them.

Cause and effect.

 _How can a life be determined by the direct result, whether be it good or bad, of a previous life?_

Good deeds results in happiness and prosperity for the next life. Bad deeds contributes sadness and future suffering.

What we experience now is the result of our own past's actions and our future is a function of our own choice and making.

If that's the case then she loathes previous-life-Addison for banishing her with eternal suffering. But then that means next-life-Addison will also be condemned to forever hell for she is not a good person. _She's a fucking_ _horrible person_. And this is her punishment, being stuck in this _box_ \- somewhat in a literal and figurative sense.

She wondered what previous-life-Addison had done. What had she done so bad for she to suffer her wrath? _Had she too slept with her husband's best friend?_

 _Immense sorries to all future Addisons._

She's apologising in advance since she can only imagine the misery her future-self will have to endure.

 _Tied to eternal suffering._

Addison laid awake on the squeaky and rusty single bed that barely suffices her Amazonian legs. It was just enough and _just enough_ wouldn't have ever been in her vocabulary. She don't think she've ever slept on a single mattress before. All the beds she've slept on had more than enough length for her long legs, more than enough room for two bodies, more than enough space to stretch. This child-like size bed didn't come with any of that comfort.

Double. Queen. King. _California king._ Now, that's a word in her vocabulary bank that she'd like to use more often.

But that was more than seven years ago.

Everyone - family, husband, friends, colleagues - must have forgotten her already.

Derek probably had a long time ago.

Her parents, she don't think her parents had even noticed.

Mark, she was just a fling, a one night stand to him.

Her friends and colleagues, well, they have their own lives to worry about.

Sighing, _what else can she do?_

It's not like she could just walk out of this - _whatever this is_ \- room. She had tried to escape years ago. Of course, she had. She wouldn't be called _Addison Montgomery-Shepherd_ if she hadn't.

She tried a handful of times until she realised there was no point and no possible way in getting past that fucking maniac. Also, _he_ had hit her so hard one day with what she believed was a ceramic toilet lid, the heaviest object in this _room_ , that she had spent days to hinge off the seat, which actually was used to her disadvantage because instead of _him_ being slammed by it, it was she who was. Resulting in her landing awkwardly onto her right wrist - her dominant hand. Her miracle hand. That was where she was able to heal.

 _Every surgeon's worst nightmare._

Till this day, she've never ever tried escaping ever again.

 _She gave up._

 _Have you learned your lesson?_

She just nodded at _him_ , very slightly, cradling her broken wrist in her other hand, as she gasped for air. Leaving her to wonder whether _he_ had noticed her confirmation - the maniac craves on being acknowledged and if _he_ isn't, she gets punished. But _he_ must have because _he_ was already by the door, pinning in a code like _he_ always does.

She didn't need an x-ray to confirm that the intricate bones of her trapezium and carpals hadn't had set properly.

Till this day, her wrist aches. Sometimes so terribly. Till this day, her hand shakes. She knows she's never going to operate ever again.

It's been seven long years since she touched a ten blade.

She has taken an early retirement.

So much for hundreds of thousands spent on medical school. She didn't even get to finish her residency. She was just on her first year before all this happened.

Peering through the duvet, unbeknownst to the jolly little boy, who's now greeting every object a _very good morning_ , a daily routine of his, she watched as her son whisk from object to object around their condemned hell.

 _A 13ftx10ft._

She thinks it's that size. She don't really know. _An estimation_. It's not like she has access to a measuring tape.

 _Oh_ , and she've also never lived in a room this size before.

Her last known address was in New York City in a brownstone she shared with her husband.

 _That_ was living. She had a life, though not a perfect and happy one and one she took for granted. At least she was free. _Addison had freedom_. Happiness is void without freedom. She had to learn that the hard way. _This_ , this isn't living. Living wasn't supposed to be waiting for the necessities and groceries she had to practically beg on her knees for before he would bring them for her - begging for more food, vitamins for her and her son. She's mere existing, surviving for no one else other than her boy. If he wasn't born, she would've gladly begged to be killed.

 _Are they even in New York City?_

Maybe somewhere further north because it gets really cold in the winter season.

Maybe the suburbs or the counties.

 _Monroe._

 _Albany._

 _Nassau._

 _Yonkers._

 _Plattsburgh._

Watching intently, he now pushed a button to the CD player, a gadget she earned by doing something she really doesn't want to say - _maybe sometime in the future she'll talk about it but definitely not now_ \- and the soft mellow of Clair De Lune began playing.

Her fingers started floating with the keys. Like they would when she plays it on the piano.

He hummed through the Debussy's D-flat major eloquent movement and spun around the small room, she giggled.

He is her whole life. She never thought she'd be able to love someone as much as she loves her son. Words cannot describe the deep affection she feels. _Love?_ She don't think it should even be called love because love is overrated and the term has long been overused.

She _loves_ sushi. But not the raw fish ones.

She _loves_ being a doctor. Giving babies a second chance in life is a reason on it's own.

She _loves_ watching old movies. Those cheesy romantic ones.

She _loves_ her parents. Her brother, Archer, included.

She _loves_ her husband.

 _This_ , it's beyond love. She's empty without her son. He gave her purpose.

But he must have heard her chuckle, she had hastily closed her eyes, because he now had stopped on his toes and was tiptoeing towards her on the bed.

A jolt to her legs as she felt the flimsy mattress dip a little with his familiar weight, and he crawled towards her.

"Ma..." A little hand was now patting her cheek, "Are you wake, Ma?"

Slowly opening her hooded eyes to see a small round face with bright blue eyes, she pretended to have just been woken up and yawned and stretched her long limbs.

Her son was beaming at her. He's most likely happy now that she's awake.

"Happy birthday, my sweet baby." she said and pulled him closer to tickle him. He squealed, trashing his tiny arms next to her, pleading for her to stop, laughing as she brushed her fingers over his overly sensitive tummy.

Just like her, that's his tickle spot.

"Ma!" he laughed as she showered his face with kisses.

"Okay. Ma's going to stop. Okay. Happy Birthday baby!" she composed herself before placing a kiss to his forehead.

"I'm not baby, Ma. I'm five." he held out his little five fingers.

Addison brushed his smooth dark brown hair over his eyes and peered into her son's blue eyes that says he's a Montgomery, without a doubt. She can't believe it's been five years already.

 _Whoa!_

She've done it all by herself.

"C'mere," she lay back down, pulled him to rest on top of her and she wrapped her arms around his small frame, "I'm know. Ma just can't believe her baby's five already."

He pouted a little, brows knitted together, seemingly thinking about something. "I was four last night but when I woken up in dark light, I'm changed to five. Like magic. Like from TV. _Poof_!" he made a sound and gestured with his hands the aftereffect. "And before that I was three, then two, then one, then zero..." Counting until he had no fingers left.

Addison watched him enthusiastically, watching him think is her favourite pastime.

She knows what he's thinking now.

"Where was I before zero?" his tone was innocently curious.

He's a very curious boy. Very talkative too.

"Well," she gathered herself, pulling him off her and allowed him to climb onto her lap, and he looked up at her with bright eyes.

Teaching him about things, reasoning with him about this and that and life in general have also been one of her favourites because he actually listens to her and believes every single word that comes out of her mouth like it's the gospel.

She had to mend her passive aggressiveness and pessimism by telling him some fairytales here and there, amending her stories to child-friendly viewers.

She only wants him happy.

"You were up in heaven."

"Was I one, two, three, four, five up in heaven?"

"No, sweetie. You don't age until you zoomed down-"

"Through skylight." he interrupted and pointed up at the ceiling where a skylight, their only window, was. "You were sad until I was in your tummy."

It's the story she told him last year, when he turned four.

"Yes, I was." Addison said, pressing her thin lips to the top of his head and inhaled his scent. She can still smell that fresh newborn scent on him.

 _She's still sad._

"I cried and cried and cried until I didn't have any tears left." she said, "I just lay here and counted the days."

"How many days?"

 _Hmmm?_

 _How many days has she been locked in here?_

"2,553 days as of today."

She counted. _Every morning_. She remembers.

Still managing to keep track of her sanity. She's a smart woman and that's why she graduated on top of her class in medical school.

"Whoa! That's so many many days!" he beamed too excitedly.

"Yes, Christopher."

 _Derek Christopher Shepherd_

"Then you got fat."

She grinned. She had always envisioned herself carrying Derek's child. She even had a picture in mind and still does - him resting one of his hands on the swell of her belly. Going through pregnancy, an exciting new beginning, together with him. But this was her fate. "I could feel you kicking."

"What was I kicking?"

"Me, silly."

He lifted his head from her chest, "No, Ma. You're being silly! It's not possible."

 _Ahh! But it is_. She's very glad to explain to him her specialty, the science behind and how, in fact, it is possible. But he's not old enough yet to fully comprehend the human anatomy.

Maybe when he's six. Or seven. Or eight. Or nine... _they're never leaving this godforsaken place._

"It's true. From the inside." she said and gently rub at her tummy. The human body is a wondrous treasure and a very resilient one too. It can protect one from trauma and even heal without a trace.

"And when you were coming, I can feel you and I thought _Christopher's_ _coming_. And you zoomed down from heaven through skylight first thing in the morning on March the third."

He placed his ears to her tummy. "You're hungry, Ma." he whispered.

"It's ok, honey."

 _Yes, she is._ She didn't get to eat very much yesterday. Nothing for dinner, in fact.

She's not all that hungry too often. Sometimes she'll just have cups of coffee to fill her up. She's perfectly fine. _Functional._

It saddens her that he knows, he's aware of their living situation, _poor_ , aware that they have certain times that they could eat, certain amount that they could eat, _ration_ , limited amount that they could eat. She'd give him her portion, he needs food to grow, for nourishment. He's so small for a five-year-old. A five year old shouldn't have to worry about these things.

What he doesn't know is that he's _rich_ and if they get out of this place, they'll have all the food in the world to eat, all the money to spend and all the space of a comfortable home. He'll be able to go to school and have a career of his choosing.

 _He'll have a trust fund too._

She hadn't used hers yet, she'll give him hers when they leave this hole.

When she was five, she didn't have any of this to worry about. She had a nanny, Clementine, who kept her company and took her to the park, piano classes and ballet, and the housekeeper would cook all of their meals. She lived in a mansion in Connecticut with her dysfunctional family.

She didn't have anything to worry about.

"You cut the cord and I was all blue. But you're a baby doctor. You save babies and you save me. And here I am."

There was a bit of a complication as he zoomed down from heaven. He was a breech baby, and in danger of suffocation. His legs came through first instead of his head, like she had _hoped_. _She didn't know_. It wasn't like she had an ultrasound machine with her. She was relying solely on luck for the months up to her first contraction. Thirty four hours later, her water broke. _Luck had never been on her side._

She froze. She had cried and screamed even harder. She knows she won't be able to live if she were to lose him. She really wanted to meet him. _Excited_.

Her worst nightmare was playing right before her as she performed her on birth. _You're a surgeon, Addison. You're in an OR. Your patient is in labour. The baby's in distress_. There were no means for a c-section. She was alone. So, she did what she thinks everyone would have done if they were in her position, she _prayed_ which was odd because she had never believed in God. Gently and forcibly, she pulled him out of her.

 _It was a miraculous day._

Shaking the both wonderful and horrific memory, she laced her hair through an elastic band. Her shoulder-length hair had stopped growing a long time ago. _Vitamin deficiencies._ Her body's in survival mode right now and apparently glowing skin and healthy hair aren't a priority.

"Have you brush your teeth, Christopher?"

He gave her a big nod.

"Did _he_ came by yesterday night, ma? Did you tell _him_ is my birthday today?"

 _He_.

Christopher knows to never speak of _him_.

"C'mon, let's go wash our hands." she quickly changed the subject. She loves kids, they're very distractible. "We're making a birthday cake."

"For me?!"

He's never had a birthday cake before and she finally got herself to ask the maniac for a box of cake mix, some eggs and milk.

"Yes, it's all for you, baby."

And so he excitedly dragged a chair towards the sink and climbed on top of it, leaning over as she slathered their hands with antibacterial soap. Like she would when prepping for surgery.

She removed all jewellery. In this case, she had none because _he_ took her wedding band. So, she pretend to remove her wedding band from her finger and slip them into her pocket.

Then, she lathered their hands and arms with antibacterial soap. And let Christopher blow bubbles with his soapy hands.

Since she doesn't have a nail file, that step doesn't need to be performed.

 _Two minutes each_. She started timing as she looked at the old clock and began scrubbing each side of each of their fingers, between their fingers, and the back and front of their hands, all for two minutes.

Then, their arms. Reminding Christopher to keep his hand higher than his arm at all times.

"You know why we should always wash our hands?" she asked, now at the last and final step, the rinse.

"There are germs everywhere. Germs can sick you."

"That's right. You're so smart." she praised his intelligence. "Germs can make you sick, but germs can also kill you. So always remember to wash your hands."

She loves that kids are like sponges, very absorbable, very malleable. She can't help but think, so gullible too. So full of wisdom and positivity, so what she's not used to. But his positivity is too what's keeping her from losing her mind.

"Ma, how did you get the stuffs to making the cake?"

She poured a bit of the milk into the batter, flexing her aching wrist before continuing to mix. She knows where he's getting at.

It's the same question but asked differently.

 _He is her son. He's passive aggressive in his own way._

"Ma, did you tell _him_ is my birthday?" he asked louder this time, thinking she hadn't heard him.

 _He is her son. He is very persistent._

And this is what she doesn't like about children, they can be so utterly pertinacious and tedious.

"Maaaaa..." he patted her cheek with a soft little hand, trying to get her attention while she continued to ignore him. Irritation creeping in.

"Ma, can you hear-"

"Stop, Christopher! Stop it! I told you you are not to talk about _him_!" she shouted, slamming the fork into the mix, causing a few to splash all over the table.

The second she ended her sentence, the second she turned around and look him in the eyes, her heart seized to exist. Melting into oblivion. Tears well up in his eyes and his lower lip turned upside down, trembling and she felt like she's the devil, Satan.

 _She must be_. There's a reason why she's here.

"Christopher..." she breathed, attempting to reach for him, to console him, but he whimpered and climbed down the chair, stomping towards the bed with both arm around his eyes.

"No!" he shrieked, shooting her a wounded look before throwing himself onto the bed.

Running her fingers through her hair, she breathed a shaky breath and told herself that she has no permission to break alongside her son.

So, she straightened up herself, smoothing her hands over her rumpled clothes and closed the short distance between the so-called kitchen and the thin material that she's forced to call sheets.

Oh how she misses her designer kitchen in her brownstone. Though she barely even know how to cook and hardly ever does use that kitchen for it's conventional use, to her, that isn't the purpose of a kitchen. _Cooking_. Designing her kitchen has been more therapeutic than anything really. _For show_. Screaming wealth to any guests that they may have. She doesn't know why she does it, spending thousands of dollars in redesign that kitchen every other year. From modern to contemporary then back to modern again. _It's a never ending_ _cycle._ Those two accents, she has always adored and Derek, he knows to never say anything about it. But he had, once, in spite.

It's difficult to explain and definitely harder to grasp around the logic - _she_ _knows that_ \- but perhaps the black and white or steel forefronts, the eco-friendly Poggenpohl textured teak lava and terra melamine cabinetry, the BLANCO steel fixtures, Miele appliances and caesarstone surfaces were her zen.

Her kitchen was her happy place.

She's living in a box now. She has no kitchen. She has no bathroom, nor does she have any bedrooms and definitely no guest rooms. She's living in a room where all rooms are cramped into one. Never in a million years would she have thought that was possible. _And for Addison Montgomery?! Never!_

She's not in her happy place.

This is a shoebox.

 _So, this is what her shoes felt like?_

Whenever he gets like this, she's immediately hit with her bare reality. She's reminded of where they actually are.

One might think being stuck here, all-day and every day, she wouldn't and couldn't have a problem of remembering where she is. But the thing is, whenever they're laughing and smiling and listening to classical music, she's able to forget. She's able to trick her brain into happiness.

With caution, she sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing out the wrinkly bedding - she doesn't even what to think about it's thread count and she have since she've had plenty of time to gawk at the sheets.

"Christopher..." she rested a hand on his shoulder but he brushed her fingers off.

"You're so mean, Ma." he cried into the sheets. "Why you always so mean!"

She smiled sadly, wiping her hands over her tearless face, stroking back his reddish-brown mane. He's in dire need of a trim, a long and overdue one. But _he_ doesn't trust her around scissors and she doesn't trust _him_ around her son.

It was a deal she made with the maniac. _He's_ not allowed to lay a finger on her son or even dare look at him - she hides him in the cupboard whenever he's around - and in return, _he_ could do whatever _he_ pleases with her.

She sighed loudly, "I'm sorry, Christopher. Ma's just tired."

"You're always tired then." he spat, looking up at her with his bloodshot eyes before planting his face back into the mattress.

 _She is always tired._

She has no energy. She feels thrice her age.

But she fears one day her body will shut down and she'll die in her sleep. Christopher will be all alone. No one to fend for him. _An orphan_. She doesn't want to think what _he'll_ do to her boy if she were to be dead.

She's not so sure if she can go on like this any longer.

"Christopher..." she was wrenching him by the shoulders but he twisted harshly, quickly and her bad wrist caught with the friction of his pull. She gasped at the sudden pressure to her wrist, swallowing a curse.

"Christopher, I'm sorry. Okay. I'm sorry. Ma's just tired. I know it's no excuse but, you know, I don't like talking about _him_..."

Blinking rapidly, the way she does when she fights back tears.

"But I'm five now. I'm old. Why can't I see _him_? I know _he_ comes here from the outside every night."

She was afraid he'd caught up to that and even more terrified for him to see what _he_ was really doing to her. But Christopher was supposed to be sleeping.

 _What does she really expect?_

He's a kid. He's curious. And he's smart like his mother.

She can't get mad at him. After all they live in a small space. He's bound to notice.

"Ma just wants to protect you, okay? Trust me, Christopher. You trust Ma right?" she asked as she rubbed her aching wrist.

She's going to need to ask for more painkillers.

He nodded.

"I'm sorry. Will you forgive your naughty Ma?"

Shaking his head - _no_ \- he wriggled around and leaned back against her. "No. You're not naughty, Ma. You're just protecting me." he whispered, stroking her cheek.

"That's right." she felt a strong rush of protectiveness, just the same one she had felt five years ago when she was in labour. She knew then that she had to keep him safe.

Gathering the small boy in her arms, she hummed a tune her nanny used to sing to her as a child, rocking him until their pounding hearts synced.

"I forgot to have some when I woke." he said softly and pressed a small palm to her breast.

"That's okay. You're five. You're old now."

"Silly Ma!" he lightly slapped her forehead, "I need your milk so I can have muscles bigger than Superman. Like from TV."

So she laid down on the single bed with her boy tucked close to her chest, praying to anyone upstairs, anyone who's willing to listen to her relentless pleas, to hear that she've understood, that she've learnt her lesson, that she'll be a good person for now and forever.

 _She understands karma, so, now can she go home?_

 **-:-**

She checked the old clock on the far right hand corner, _12:10_ , it read.

After nursing, Christopher hadn't thrown any more tantrums and she's glad that he has finally simmered down and was back to being his jolly self.

They successfully continued making the batter for his birthday cake without any interruptions and she put the tin into their low voltage Trusty Toaster Oven.

 _Ma, can I lick the spoon?_

 _No, sweetie. You'll get a stomach ache._

 _Ma, why is Trusty Toaster Oven hot?_

 _Electricity helps heat up the oven and that cooks the cake._

"What's electricity?" he asked now.

"Never mind, sweetie. It doesn't matter." she sighed, "For now, you're too young to understand."

It's a line she says whenever she doesn't know what to say or was just simply too tired to explain to him.

"Okay. Next week when I turn six, will you tell, then?"

She smiled and propped her elbows onto the table, taking a slice of apple from his plate.

"Next year." Addison corrected, "You mean...next...year..." she trailed off and closed her eyes.

 _Next year?_

The thought saddens her. _Staying here for another year! She can't survive that! Not for another years!_ She wants to get out of here. She needs to go back home. She needs for them to get out of here because their shallow graves are what's next for them.

If they'll even survive for another year that is.

Some nights, she lie awake and stare up at the ceiling, plotting a way for their escape. But they all seemed so dangerous. It's not just her life now.

Some nights, she drifts on thoughts of Derek. _Has he forgotten about her? Has he found someone else? Has he forgiven her? Will he ever? Does he ever think about her? Does he still hate her or does he love her?_

Hoping it's the latter.

 _Does he even know she's missing?_

That she's trapped in a shoebox with a child.

She wants to beg for his forgiveness. She's really good at begging now. Practically mastered the art.

He has to forgive her.

Their life is uncertain.

Their life is in the hands of a maniac.

Who knows maybe one day he'll snap and kill the both of them.

"Ma, why are you crying?"

"I'm not." she reassured, "Ma's just tired."

"Promise?" he held out his pinky, not quite convinced.

Locking her long pinky finger, in comparison to his, "Promise." she said with a smile then.

And since this Trusty Toaster Oven isn't one of her premium Miele ovens, it'll take about over an hour for the cake to bake. Sometimes even longer. But it doesn't really matter since while they wait and breathe in the heavenly scent of vanilla, she can busy herself with chores, like she always does. And Christopher, he's sitting by the table, drawing pictures. Like he always does.

Yesterday, he drew a beautiful picture of the two them holding hands and with a heart in between them. _She_ _loves it_. It melts her heart. But the only issue she had with his masterpiece was the fact that he had drawn a box around them, signifying where they are.

She's now her knees scrubbing the cold and concrete floor, because it's Tuesday and that's what she do on Tuesdays, and with her left hand because her right was throbbing. Looking back at her son, she saw him stick out his tongue, another sign that he's thinking.

"You are you thinking over there, sweetheart?"

He beamed up at her, picking up a slice of apple with his fingers.

"Use your fork. Germs." she reminded him.

"Oops, sorry, Ma. I don't wanna go back to heaven early."

"And I don't want you to."

She never even want to think about that.

"Ma, how old are you going to be on your birthday?"

She stopped what she was doing and for the first time in many years, she allowed herself to think about her birthday. _October 13_. Having not celebrated it in seven years, so that would make her..."Thirty six."

"Wow!" he exclaimed, "I only have ten hand fingers and ten foot fingers, I cannot count to thirty six."

She's turning thirty six this year.

 _Thirty six?_

She's so old.

Remembering like it was yesterday that she was celebrating her twenty ninth birthday. It was the last birthday she had celebrated.

Derek had remembered and had made reservations but the catch was that he didn't told her that he was still on-call, so when he was paged, he left her there all by herself to cover the cheque. On the contrary, he reimbursed her once he got home the next day. And she couldn't even start an argument with him because she understood.

"Yes, sweetie. Ma's _ancient_." she said tiredly before turning the tap to run a bath.

"What's _ancient_?"

"Well, it means very old."

He laughed, "You _are_ very old, Ma."

She smiled. She knows he meant no harm but it still stung.

She is old, feeling way older than a thirty-six-year-old.

She had spent her thirty through thirty-fifth birthday in this fucking hellhole.

 _He_ took everything from her.

"C'mon, sweetie, let's go take a nice bath then once we're done we can have some cake." she said, holding out her hand to her son.

Nodding, he tucked his little hand into hers comfortably and they made the short distance to the tub together before she undid his ponytail, as well as hers. They both stripped down bare and then slid into the warm tub.

She reminded him to scrub between his toes and behind his ears. And helped him shampoo his long hair, "Close your eyes, hun. You don't want soap in your eyes again, now do you?"

"No." he shook his head and shut his eyes very tightly.

Once they were done, she dropped the clothes that they previously wore into the tub, so that she could _hand wash_ them later.

It's not like she has a washing machine.

And she just has to say one thing, washing clothes by _hands_ is the worst chore there is.

It is a literal chore. _Hard labour._

She doesn't understand how people do it. The fabrics are rough against her skin and it hurts her hands. Now, her once smooth and soft hands are no longer smooth and soft. They've harden over the years.

"Ma," he interrupted her thoughts. They're now on the floor, legs crossed and watching TV, enjoying a slice of cake. _SpongeBob_ _SquarePants_. Their favourite.

When Christopher wasn't born yet, cartoons were her escape. She would lie on the cold ground - alone and terrified - and allow herself to immerse into the comedic and fictional world of 2D. Then, for a while before _he_ comes back, she'd remember how to laugh and smile.

"Can you tell me another story of your friend _Addison_?"

 _Addison_

It's odd hearing her name coming out of her son's mouth. _It's odd hearing it, period._ It's been quite some time now.

She's not the same Addison she once was seven years ago, 2,553 days ago.

Looking back, they're two very different women.

To her son, Addison is merely a tale she tells him. _Addison is my friend_ , she had explained to him. He has no idea that Addison is really actually his mother.

She glanced down him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Sure. Remind me what story I told you?"

"You told me that she is a baby doctor too. Like you, Ma. And you two are best of friends. Like you and I. And you work together in hospital. And one day a fat lady come to hospital with very painful tummy ache and then baby zoomed from skylight."

She remembered that day, it was her first day as an intern.

"Ok. Would you like a happy or sad story?"

He stuck out his finger and pressed it to his temple, "Sad. Because you told a happy one last time."

"Ok..." _So, where does she start?_ "It was pouring so terribly that night..."

* * *

 ** _Seven Years Ago_**

* * *

Addison's cries were lost beneath the thunder that rolled overhead, like a prelude to a great song, impetuous rumbling permeating the air every bit as much as the heavy rain. _She's sorry. She wasn't thinking. She was drinking. She's lonely_. With each and every crackling boom, her shoulders shook with terrified sobs.

He's angry.

 _What's Derek going to do?_

He had just stood there, by the doorway of their bedroom, staring at them in utter discontent. His fist was clutching the knob so tightly that she really thought he was going to yank it out of it's screws and flung it at her.

Derek had literally just caught them - his wife and best friend - red handed, in the throes of passion.

Mark had one hand on her thigh, hiking her higher, spreading her further apart, just the way he liked and the other was tightly against the headboard.

The two people he trusted immensely in this whole entire world had just betrayed him with their insatious act.

The door had pitched forward with a loud bang as Mark, who was determined to screw her right through the mattress she shared with her husband, was on the verge of finishing.

 _"Seriously, Addison!"_ was all Derek had said and in that quarter of a millisecond, the heat she was feeling turned to icicles.

Her blood ran cold.

It was all in her head. It must be all in her head. _It ought to be_. She hoped that the voice she was hearing, in this case - her husband's - was all in her head. _Seriously, Addison_. He's always saying that to her. It wasn't anything new. _Seriously, Addison_. But when her eyes had flung open and as her eyes met those directly above hers, _fear_ , a confirmation, it was then that she knew she was so wrong.

So very very wrong.

 _Derek's home._

But he's never home. She just never know when he'll come home anymore.

He was supposed to be home because they had made plans to go out for dinner but he never showed up. He was supposed to be home and that's why she got herself all dressed up in red. He _was_ supposed to be home two and a half hours ago.

But he is not supposed to be home right now.

After that - _seriously, Addison_ \- it was as if everything heightened. A quarter of a millisecond later, everything sped up so quickly and in lightning speed that her brain didn't know how to comprehend her reality. She couldn't grasp what was happening or whether it was really really happening.

 _Derek walked out_. She heard the front door slam shut. _Mark pulled out so_ _quickly_. She gasp in pain. _Sorry_ , _Addison_. And she, she just laid there, staring up at the ceiling, her heart pounding so fast, she thought she was about to have a heart attack.

 _What have she done? What have she done? What have she done?_ _What have she done?_

 _Seriously, Addison._

She slept with Mark!

Now, she's curled on the foot of the bed, dressed in one of Derek's old shirts with her knees tucked close to her chest. Resting her aching head against them, her cries just like the thunder above, were violent to her ears. But soon came a rolling sound that dissipates into the surrounding walls.

She wants to hide. She has nowhere to hide.

 _Seriously, Addison._

Jumping at the sound of the front door slamming again, she quickly got up - _Derek's home_ \- frozen in fear as footsteps ascended the stairs.

He is stomping very purposefully. Each harsh step, his soles met the wooden flooring with burning rage.

"Derek."

He didn't even look at her, _didn't or_ _couldn't or wouldn't_ \- she doesn't know which but either way he was looking right past her, behind her as he marched for the closet.

"Derek! Derek! Derek, listen to me-" Addison chased after him, tears streaming down her face. Her words were cut midway as a clap of thunder shook the blackened sky which only seemed to pester his anger towards her.

A boom like that could only mean that the heavens were about to let down a deluge of misery - she knows it to be true. _God never liked her._

"Listen to me. Derek, you can't do this. Please...We have to talk about this."

"No, we don't."

He gave her the dirtiest of looks, very briefly, before turning his attention back to the closet. She hung her head in shame in return.

She didn't know Derek was capable in giving nasty looks.

 _He's a gentle soul._

"Give me a chance to explain." she pleaded, attempting to rest a hand on his shoulder, but when she saw what he was grabbing for in the closet, she winced. "Wait, Derek-What are you doing with my clothes? Derek!"

But he was quick, very quick, too quick for her. Normally, she's like a cheetah. Her movements were always faster than his. _Maybe it's because of all the liquor she has had earlier_. But she can't really blame it all on hard liquor because she barely even finished her drink. In one swift motion, he had an armful of her clothes in hangers in his arm.

"Derek, don't!"

And just as quickly, in another swift motion, he was walking away from her. She reached out for him, successfully grabbing his shoulder but he shoved her hand away with a rough shrug.

Before she could even get herself to chase after him, he was already dropping all her clothes onto their bed and just like that, he yanked his favourite 800 thread count cotton fitted sheets from the mattress, harshly bunching her clothes along with the sheets.

"Derek, please don't do this!" she panicked.

She grabbed him.

"Don't you dare touch me with those hands, Addison! Don't you make me hit you!"

He's mad.

He wouldn't.

She knows he didn't mean it. He's just angry. He'd never. _Never_. She knows he'd never. _Right?_

This is all wrong.

She followed him down the hallway towards the stairwell, with her slippers pounding down the steps. "It was one time! One time. Please listen. It just happened, Derek!"

With the sheets and her clothes still heavy in his arms, he stopped on his tracks to glare at her. Rage and the tiniest linger of pain were in his eyes.

"I know that's what people say. I know that's what gets said - I don't know how it happened - I don't know what I was thinking. _He was here_."

And by the exhale he gave her and the low chuckle that escaped his tense lips, she knew there was something wrong with what she had just said.

This is all wrong.

She wasn't planning on sleeping with Mark. _Never_. She never even had a desire to. She don't think she've ever even thought about it a day in her life. _Never_. Like she said, _he was here_ , that's how this all started. And now, he's gone. He left her like her husband's about to. He had ran off, and was half dressed as he hit the door.

Mark was here, like he had been for the past few days when Derek hadn't. Mark was here, keeping her company when Derek wasn't. Mark was just here, making her laugh and smile because he knows she felt abandoned. She doesn't know how he knew that but he knew. He knew just how to make her feel better about herself, he knew the right words to say, he knew what to do, he knew how to get in her pants.

 _I'm here, ok. I'm here for you, Red._

She just smiled shyly and looked down at her lap, tucking a few strands behind her ear. He must have sensed that something was bothering her.

How can he not? Her eyes were puffy and red. It was so utterly transparent.

She was crying.

She and Derek had had another one of their quarrels.

 _You're beautiful and your husband's a mad man for not noticing that...Anymore._

Next thing she knew, he was next to her on the couch - no, he had been next to her on the couch, now he's inches away from her. Looking _into_ her, not just _at_ her. _Into her_. His gaze was hot against her skin.

 _Mark..._ , was what she said so softly, pleadingly.

Maybe she was begging with him to stop whatever they both knew was about to happen. Maybe she was soliciting him to touch her, to kiss her, to _fuck_ her. She don't know. But she never should've looked into his eyes because it shadowed whatever illicit thing she was feeling inside. They were different, she noticed. _Darker._

He took her wrist, gently drawing circles with his thumb. _So smoothly_ _and softly_. She don't really know why but that - heated tenderness - went straight down south. And because he's Mark, he's skilled, he must know that that's what girls relishes and just like a statistic, she was relished.

She couldn't stop him even if she wanted to and she didn't.

 _Derek won't be home tonight, he's never home anymore, Addison. So, what's one time?_

She convinced herself when he began stroking her inner thigh, watching as his thick fingers crawl higher and higher, agonising second after agonising second. She was already squirming underneath.

This is all wrong.

She yelled after him as he opened the front door of their brownstone, "You screwed my best friend and all you can say is _'He was just here?'_ " Derek shouted back and she watched in slow motion as he hurled all of her clothes out the front door. Immediately, soaking the delicate fabrics with the harsh rain.

She's sobbing harder now, not knowing what to do next, not knowing what to say to get through to him, to get him to listen to her cries. So, she stood at the bottom of the stairs, her shaky hands covering her tear stricken face.

He's quiet now. He's thinking.

"Get out."

The words made Addison shudder and she shook her head.

"No."

Taking a step towards her, she was quivering, shaking her head, mumbling _no, no, no_ and she gripped the banister tighter.

"Get out, Addison."

"No. No, I'm not going!" she shouted. Trying to sound a lot more adamant than how she's actually feeling. _Weak._

"Get out of _my_ house now!" Derek yelled, fully prepared to drag her out himself.

 _Our house..._

"We have to talk about this. I'm holding my ground." she pleaded, her hands holding the banister like her life depended on it.

She crouched low on the step, he can't drag her out of their home. _He wouldn't, right?_ "I'm holding my ground, Derek. I'm holding my ground! We don't quit!" she screamed at him.

Gripping her wrists with intense force, "Get out." he repeated again and again as he pried each and every finger of hers off the banister.

"Ow! Derek! What are you doing?" she was pulling herself back, trying to hold onto something but he was obviously stronger and high with rage. So, she fought, struggling against his restraining hands as he led her to the front door.

"Derek, no, no!"

He was flinging the door open with one hand and she tried to peel off the hand that had a death grip on her wrist, but she was no match for him.

Just like that he slammed the door in her face without even looking at her and she was now on the other side of the door, in the pouring rain.

"Please. Derek." she sobbed, hastily banging the thick door with her fists. She can feel the freezing cold rain soaking through her clothes.

This _is_ all wrong.

Derek wouldn't leave her out here. _He wouldn't, right?_

But then again, she too thought wrong. Everything about tonight was all wrong. She never had an inkling, a day in her life, that she'd sleep with Mark Sloan.

She don't really know anything. She've been poisoning herself with false beliefs all this time, making herself feel better.

"Derek!" she screamed on top of her lungs. Not caring about their neighbours anymore. They live on the Upper East Side and on a normal and uneventful day, she would've cared. _A_ _lot_. One can't put a price on reputation.

Their reputation means everything to them.

They're doctors.

She's certain their neighbours can hear them - _her_. She's certain their neighbours can hear her sobbing for Derek to let her in.

"Please. Please. Please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You have to give me a chance. You have to give me a chance to show you how sorry I am. I'm sorry, Derek."

She was now slowly and weakly fisting the door, her body shivering, he still hadn't open the door. Or even peeked through the curtains.

She checked.

He doesn't care. _He doesn't care about her anymore_. She thought he would. She used to be everything and more to him.

 _What happened to them?_

"Derek...please..." She was on the concrete stoop, on her knees, sobbing, her hands against the cold wooden door, her eyes staring without recognition at the blank wall ahead.

At ten past as she checked her Clé De Cartier watch that Derek had gifted her for her birthday, she realised that she've sitting idly for a little over thirty minutes.

"Derek..." she whispered. She don't think he've moved an inch as well. She couldn't hear anything on the other side.

No ruffling. No footsteps.

Closing her eyes in tears, she closed them tight. And she counted while she rocked there on her knees. She counted slow; counting, counting until the tears stopped trickling and her eyes could confront her reality.

 _Eleven, oh-three_. The hands on the watch read.

A long, shuddering sigh, she is still here. _Cold_. Salty tears running down her cheeks.

It had stopped raining a while ago.

Running her fingers through her very wet red hair, swiping at her eyes with her palms then, she decided that she'd better head over to Savvy's, not Mark's because it'll make things worse, or she'll catch a cold.

She'd let her in. She knows she would.

So, she put on whatever bottoms she could find with the pile Derek had thrown - a pair of soaked black slacks - because it's better than walking thirty plus minutes half naked in New York City.

 _Numb._

Her head was pounding but other than that intense pressure in her head, she feels nothing. Nothing at all, she's floating through the streets of New York.

Surrounded by darkness and because it's New York City and women shouldn't be walking alone and vulnerable like she is, she's avoiding all life, never taking her eyes off the filthy and wet New York City pavement.

 _How did they end up this way?_

It was all her fault. Their end is all on her. _But it takes two to end a marriage._ She just escalated their ruins by sleeping with her husband's best friend.

A loud crash. A boom. She was startled.

A homeless man with a raggy old coat collapsed to the ground, along with his mountain stuffed shopping cart that landed on top of him.

"Sir!" she run towards the needy because that's what a good citizen would've done and not just turn 180 degrees. Besides she's a doctor. She helps people in need.

Crouching beside him, "Sir, are you ok?" she asked as she pushed the weighty cart off of the stranger.

He just moaned something incoherent, clutching his arm.

"Sir, you might have dislocated your shoulder or broke a bone, do you mind if I check your arm out?" she held him by the elbow and looked the hazel in a beanie in the eyes.

"It's ok. I'm a doctor."

This might be his only chance with a real doctor.

He was reluctant at first but complied not a second later.

As she moved his arm, slowly and gently manoeuvring through its hinges - up and down, left and right - she never saw his other hand that was now raised above her. She never saw the object in hand.

But she definitely felt it.

She never would have thought that today will be her last day of freedom.

* * *

"So, where is Addison now?"

Christopher was looking at her with sparking ingenuous eyes and his question hit her close to home.

"Somewhere."

She should've turned 180 degrees or not decided to leave that stoop.

 _What's a little cold in comparison to no freedom, seven years in this shoebox?_

But she can never deny Christopher. He's the best thing that has ever happened to her.

She's nothing without him.

"Like you and I, Ma?"

"Exactly like you and I." she smiled at him.

Day in and day out, it's this room that they've been stuck in. He've never seen the vast and colourful world, the outside, the whole other world that's on the other side of this four concrete walls.

She is all he has ever known. And may ever know.

She is all he has. And he too is all she has now.

"But she didn't mean to tell a lie. She's sorry, right?"

Chewing her bottom lip, "She's so very sorry, honey." she said, willing her voice to not crack.

She's not going to cry.

"Is she lost now, then?"

She stopped, looking into eyes that were exactly like hers, thinking of the right answer to that question.

 _Is Addison lost?_

 _Is she lost?_

 _Was anyone looking for her on the outside?_

It's been seven years.

She doubts they are.

If they have been, they must and should have lost hope a long time ago. They most certainly have given up already.

She's probably dead to them.

If they never had, then that means she might as well stay in here for eternity because, at least, she's in a place where she's wanted and needed.

 _She's loved_. She has all that she ever needs here. _Her son._

Because she cannot go back to a world where she's hated and unwanted.

 _Has Derek forgiven her?_

Because she cannot face the fact that it's true, that nobody is looking for her.

"No. No, she's not."

 _Has anyone been looking for her all these years?_

* * *

 ** _Hey guys! What do you think? Does Addison deserve this to happen to her? Do you guys like the story? Shall I continue? Shall I not? If you think so, please do let me know! I'd love to know your thoughts! Thanks so much for reading! Please review! I love hearing from you guys!_**


	2. Chapter 2 - 2,555 days

**Chapter 2 - 2,555 days**

 _2,555 days. . ._

 _The measure of a man is what he does with power._

Addison Adrianne Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd found herself helpless in the face of a powerful man.

Power is a force that needs an object. To have power, a person has to have it over something, or someone.

 _He's_ not powerful by any means of wealth, status or occupation - _oh, no, absolutely not!_

 _He's_ tall but never stands tall. Not like a Montgomery.

 _He_ works in a factory. That's all she knows. She thinks a chocolate factory because _he_ would sometimes bring bags of perfectly edible, discarded candy bars.

She loves chocolate. Dark chocolate. It _was_ an everyday struggle. Emphasising on _was_. Now, she can't even stand the sight of chocolate.

 _He's_ always complaining about how tight money is at the moment and that irritates her because she can't do anything but pretend to feel sorry for _him_. She can't do anything to get them out of this freaking shoebox.

 _What can she do?_

Nothing.

All she ever does is listen and agree to whatever _he's_ ranting about.

 _I'm so sorry to hear that._

 _Yes, of course._

 _Certainly. You are the best._

 _Is there anything that I could do?_

 _I understand._

 _Thank you so much._

 _Please, I'm so very sorry._

It's rehearsed. _All of it._ It's fake. _All of it._ It's what she has to say. _All of it._ In order to keep him from detonating on her, she has to keep his temper at bay because she's afraid _he'll_ snap and break their promise, taking Christopher away to God only knows where.

Though they made a deal, _he's_ never to be trusted. _He_ snatched her off the streets seven years ago. Tricking her into thinking that _he_ was hurt, that _he_ was a homeless man. She's literal proof of how much of a maniac _he_ really is. _His_ screws are loose. No sane person would ever do that.

 _Power._

She can take all the beatings, the assaults, the ... _whatever_ \- like she has so many times before - but taking her baby away from her, she just can't handle that. _Not at all._

Christopher is her everything.

 _Power_.

Those cheap tactics are definitely not the same approach the Montgomery men take.

The language they speak. _Upper class._

The suits they wear. _Bespoke tailored suits only by New York finest._

The shoes they wear. _Straight cap derby in dark brown Shell Cordovan leather with double leather soles_

The careers they pursue. _Doctors. Lawyers. Military._

The country clubs they go to. _Sebonack Club._

The sports they play. _Golf._

And of course, the occasional extravagant parties they throw. Parties that are as equally essential and of utmost eminence to the men - though they'll never admit to it - as it is for the Montgomery women. Parties that literally screams _"I'm so filthy rich that I let my wife throw these elaborate parties I know we don't need, when she likes and whenever she pleases because I can."_

 _Power._

That is what power is to the Montgomeries. _Wealth. Occupation. Status. Reputation._

It's always about what people thinks of the Montgomeries. Everything is about reputation and their reputation is everything to them.

And _he's_ no Montgomery. _No!_

Montgomeries are phlegmatic, illustrious and are notorious for their generous donations.

It's also always about how much. _Crucial_. The price is always of key. The more zeros there are in a cheque, the better.

Money buys everything. Just like how money bought all her teachers to turn the other cheek when it came to her and her brother since the sixth grade. They literally got away with everything since then. It was more beneficial for Archer than for her, really. He got into trouble almost everyday but never received any hard punishments for his behaviour because of the the lump sum of generosity that helped completed the renovation of the school library, that built a much bigger swimming pool. _The Montgomery Aquatics Center._

That's how it is in an elite New York City private school.

That's what a Montgomery does. _Manipulate_.

But _he's_ , well, the fucking maniac is crass, arrogant and scary.

 _His_ power stems from dominance and control.

Though _he_ almost double her in height, triple in weight, and though _he's_ able to squash her in just one flick of a hand, _his_ ability to control her - wrapping her around _his_ finger, making her beg on her knees - terrifies her.

She has never felt so low, so sad in her entire existence. _In complete submission_. So not in control of who she truly is. So out of character. So not a Montgomery.

She follows. That's what she does now.

 _She's a follower._

That got her thinking about all the ways she had handled powerful men before and how she had learned to do it.

* * *

 _ **Twenty Seven Years Ago**_

* * *

She walked into the aromatic and pristine kitchen in the mansion she lives with her parents and elder brother after putting on her best dress - a vibrant yellow with white polka dots that brought out the crimson in her hair - for dinner because that's what Mother says; to be in your best dress for dinner otherwise you _will_ go to bed with an empty stomach.

Mother always emphasises on _will_ , she's very adamant on that particular rule. She will not tolerate anyone who do not obey her sets of law.

She found her mother vigorously whisking something in a large bowl, murmuring incoherent tangents as she does.

"Addison." her mother exhaled when she saw her walked in.

"What are you making?"

"Honey pecan pie. It's your father's favourite." she chimed, in control, whisking about. She doesn't look an ounce out of breath. That always fascinates her about her mother, she's always poised and on point.

 _Sharp._

Not a strand out of place on her very stiff upswept hairdo.

Not a bead of sweat on her perfectly painted face.

"Can I help?" Addison asked as she took a seat on one of the chairs by the table.

"Pie's done, but I can teach you how to make whipped cream. Of course there's so many things I should probably teach you first." her mom said.

Excitedly, Addison beamed at the chance of broadening her horizons. Like the French say - _l'apprentissage est l'œil de l'esprit_ \- learning is the eye of the mind.

She loves it when her mother teaches her new things because it's very different from what she learns at school. It's not algebra, biology or grammar. It's practical and always applicable to every day situations. "Like what?"

"Like how to be a woman. That is the most important lesson I can pass down." her mother said intuitively, putting the bowl down in front of her on the table and passing her the whisk. "As the cream thickens, you whip it a little faster, ok?"

Nodding, "Don't I become a woman just by getting older?" she questioned.

"Oh, no, Addison. There's some things you're too young to understand, but I think you're old enough to learn about _the mask_." she wiped her hands over her apron before tucking a few strands of her daughter's red hair behind her ears.

Curiously, she furrowed her brows. _The mask?_ But she quickly relaxed her forehead when her mother gave her a stare that says - _if you want wrinkles, carry on._

"The mask?"

"It's what my mother called it. It's the face you wear when you don't want people to know what you're feeling. All well-brought-up women conceal their emotions. It's very useful, especially when dealing with men."

"Why?"

"Well," her mother gestured for her to continue the whisking and she did what she was told, "if a man knows what you're thinking, it gives him power over you. For example, if a man knows how much you love him, he'll take you for granted. He'll hurt you carelessly, cruelly, constantly."

She thought of what she saw yesterday, of Clementine - her nanny - and her father kissing. It wasn't just a peck on the lips. There were touching on very odd places. She don't really know what it means, all she knows for certain is what she had witnessed made her feel weird inside. Now, she's racking her mind on whether she ought to tell her mother. It sounded like she already knows.

But - _don't tell your mother_ \- that's what dad had said yesterday. _It's our secret. Ok, Addie?_

"Does daddy know that you love him?"

"Yes. I have told him repeatedly that I cannot live without him." she gritted, staring blankly past her. Her tone sounded odd like she's sad, like she's about to cry. But her mother's always in control of her emotions. She knows she'll never cry.

Addison doesn't quite understand what her mother was trying to explain to her. It doesn't make much sense. But maybe Mother has her reasons. "If you're so upset with him, why are you making his favourite pie?"

"Because after all of these years, I've forgotten how to wear my mask. So now I must do things to distract daddy. Like this pie. When I bring it out, he'll be so excited, he won't notice the devastation in my eyes."

"Devastation?"

"Mm-hmm. It's an emotion, Addison. The kind you might feel when your friend calls to say your husband's LeSabre was seen in the parking lot of a certain motel, next to his secretary's Bonneville."

Addison frowned, feeling upset for her mother. So all this time she knew and never mentioned or even gave an inkling that she knew. She knew and she pretended. She knew and she hid behind _the mask_ and the pies.

She continued with her whisking. Feeling tears prickling in her eyes, she stared down the almost sturdy cream.

When she has a husband in the future, she's not going to be like her mother if he ever cheats like her father does. She's never going to cheat because she understands how devastating it can be. She's not going to tolerate his extracurricular activities like her mother does with her father's.

"Practice your mask, Addison." her mother picked up her chin so that she's facing her.

Blinking back tears like her mother thought her how, she put on her best smile. The ones that showed off her braced teeth.

"Oh, no." Mother chuckled in distaste, "Honey, that's too much. All you need is the hint of a smile."

 _The hint of a smile._

And so she followed, curling her lips ever so slightly. The right was a tad bit more curled than the left side of her lips and her blue eyes had the tiniest edge of shimmer.

"Perfect." Mother smiled, "When an expression like that, no one will ever know what you're really thinking."

"And I'll have power over men?"

Her mother laughed uneasily, "God, I hope so."

* * *

One would think that the appeal of power is to be able to control things, to change them to fit your vision of reality. But actually people who desire power are mostly looking to control one thing - themselves.

So she pegs the question here; what of _himself_ is _he_ trying to control?

 _He's_ so obviously dissatisfied with _himself_ and using her to feel better about _himself_ was the answer.

 _Why can't he just find a girlfriend or a wife to do that for him?_

Maybe that's why _, he's_ a pathetic loser.

 _He's_ obviously living a double life.

One outside of these four walls, where _he_ probably has less control over the bearings of _his_ own life, where _he_ loathes _his_ job, where _he_ has nobody, where _he_ has no friends and family, where no one knows _him_ for who _he_ really is.

And one with her, in this room, where she knows _his_ true identity - an ugly monster - where she has experienced the pain _he's_ capable of inflicting, where she awakened the beast inside on countless occasions. A life where _he's_ playing some sort of role that strokes _his_ ego, pleasing _himself_ by demeaning her, crushing her spirit, her hope, her fate, stomping on her vulnerability with heavy boots, making her lose and forget who she really is.

She's chuckling now. _He's_ living the life she's living now but on the outside. _He_ has freedom whereas she doesn't. That's the difference between _him_ and her.

Autonomy quenches the desire for additional power. Generally, when people say they want power, what they really want is autonomy. And when they get that autonomy, they tend to stop wanting power. _So, yes._ By keeping her in here, _he_ wouldn't have to crave the power _he_ had so desperately desired before because _he_ has power over her. This macho crescendo that _he_ craves has already been fulfilled. _He's_ the man. The strongest. The alpha. The provider.

 _A nutcase_.

He's mentally ill.

She rolled her eyes. _He_ definitely has mommy issues.

Maybe the reason why she couldn't understand _his_ desire for power at the beginning was because she had always had autonomy and therefore, never had any strong desire for it. _She was born into power._ And _he_ definitely wasn't and hence desired it - she's not a hundred percent certain but she's fairly confident with her theory.

So you can see, she has plenty of time to wander in her head.

Running her hands over her sweat slicked face, she has been lying in bed for the past hour or so since she has a bone churning migraine. She feels nauseous. She feels tired. She wants to sleep but she can't. Her head is aching too much to give her the peace she desperately needs.

She doesn't want to admit it but she suspects the symptoms she's experiencing is because she's coming off Percocet, something she've been taking for years now. It's a cycle of swallowing pills after pills to feel better.

Opioids withdrawals are the worst. It is a pain in the ass. It feels as though she's being hit by a train again and again and again. _Non-stop. In full speed._

 _He_ didn't come by last night which meant that the groceries that they need and the Percocet that she's now literally all out of - she took her very last pill the other night - are not at her disposal.

 _She's not addicted._ She doesn't even like drugs. _She's not an addict._ She just doesn't want to feel this way.

The trash bag that she had put by the door for _him_ to take out was still there, along with the list of groceries.

 _Please pasta, lentils, tuna, cheese (if not too costly), and apples._

 _Thank you._

Her once neat and ornamental penmanship has now become scruffy scribbles because her right hand aches and shakes so badly sometimes.

Massaging her wrist, she had just spent the entire morning scrubbing the floor. _Again_. It seems like all she ever does in this hellhole was scrub the damn floor. She had just done the tedious chore yesterday but since Christopher had gotten a little too excited, jumping up and down at the fact that they're having pancakes - which understandably could excite a five-year-old - he had accidentally nudged the bowl with his elbow that contained their batter, causing what's left to splash all over the floor.

"Christopher!" she propped a hand on her hip and glared fiercely at her son.

 _Arghhh!_

She's so sick and tired of him being excited and happy all the time. It's just pancakes. They're just having breakfast. There's nothing exciting about waking up in the morning.

 _Not anymore that is._

There's nothing exciting about not being able to close the door when using the bathroom. Or having to craft her own pads with old clothes for that time of the mouth since the maniac is a fucking cheapskate. Or having to wear these dull and nasty fabrics that she now calls clothes. Or not being able to open any windows because there literally aren't any. Or not enjoying the warm morning sun, the wind blowing through her hair, the cool droplets on her skin when it rains.

There's nothing exciting about this God awful place.

"Great!" she threw her hands in the air, still holding the spatula, "Just great! Thank you Christopher. You just gave our breakfast away to the _fu_ \- to the goddamn floor. It's like you think we get our food for free."

Well, being stuck in here is payment enough. So, the food they get is definitely not at all free. And she also has to hear him fulminate before getting what they need.

Her tone was condescending and was definitely registered by her son as he stared guiltily down at his feet, rubbing them as he dare not meet his mom's gaze.

She stomped a few steps towards the back to grab a few towels. Her fingers messed angrily over her hair, tying it up with an elastic hair band. With it pulled back, her cheeks were flushed with colour as were the very tips of her ears.

She didn't mean to shout at him. She's just cranky today. Everything just irks her. Literally everything and anything. A sneeze, a call of her name - _Ma_ \- a smile, a touch of her hair - everything could have very well brought her over the edge. She's not on her best behaviour today. It's one of those days. She doesn't know what's wrong with her.

She hates feeling this way.

 _Helpless._

Sighing heavily, she got down on her knees, annoyed with her son, and began cleaning the mess he had created. She just wants to - so badly - continue on with her tangent, to dump all her frustrations on her sinless son.

She's so pent-up with frustration that screaming at Christopher seemed like the only reasonable option for her release. And she was so close to doing that when she realised she would be just as depleted as _him_. Maybe even worse because Christopher doesn't deserve to be yelled at.

Christopher is her baby.

"I just want to help, Ma." he said sadly, and she saw tears well up in his eyes when he knelt in front of her, "Ma, I'm sorry. I didn't-"

"It's ok, Christopher. Just - Hey. Don't. Please don't make it worse." she interceded when he reached for a towel to help her, "Would you just take a seat and wait for breakfast patiently."

He nodded. Shoulders slumped as he took a seat by the table. He propped his elbows on the table and rested his palms under his chin. "Sorry, Ma." he whispered.

She didn't look into his eyes for the rest of the morning since she knows the hurt she'll see was a result of her hurtful words.

She loves Christopher. Like she had said, he's the only reason for her existence. He's the best result from this baroque situation. She don't think she'll ever want to change what's happened to her because if she wasn't here, she wouldn't have him.

She might. _Who knows?_ She could. But she wants this Christopher. Only him.

It's bittersweet but it's the truth.

Lying in bed in exhaustion, she pinched the bridge of her nose. _How is this migraine only getting worse?_ Her mind drifted off to Marisol, her housekeeper at the brownstone.

 _Had she paid her enough?_

 _Is Derek still using her for her service?_

Oh, that sounded wrong.

 _Did she notice her gone?_

 _Did she even like her?_

She like to think that she does. She doesn't know. Anyway she seemed to. _Good morning, Mrs. Shepherd._ She'd greet her a very good morning with her brightest smile every morning. _How was your day at the hospital yesterday, Mrs. Shepherd?_ She would like to think that she was somewhat generous towards her, that she was well liked, that Marisol would have noticed that she wasn't home.

Now, she understood what it feels like to clean another person's house. It's not at all enjoyable. It's degrading. She's a doctor. She's not supposed to be scrubbing floors. She've never cleaned an inch of her ceramic tiled floor in the brownstone, not a day in her life. And now she's scrubbing cold cemented ground that's definitely infested with ... _something_ and crawling with cockroaches.

She deserves punishment, she knows she was selfish, she knows she was horrible, she was very stuck up, she's very well aware of all of her flaws, but she really don't think her castigation should be like this - the worse possible punishment.

 _It was only that one time._

No matter how many scrubs, no matter how many times she cleaned this room with vinegar, it will never feel clean. Nothing feels clean anymore.

Not even her own body. It hadn't for years. She's dirty. She's been marked. And she can't ever scrub herself to purity.

Stretching her long limbs over the child size bed, she massaged her throbbing temples just the way Derek would. In deep circles. As she breathed through each relief, she can hear Christopher whispering about as if he was talking to someone.

 _What can she say?_ He has one very riveting imagination. It's cute and heartwarming to watch his innocence. He would talk to things and about things like it has feelings, like it understands him, like it would actually give him a reply. Sometimes, much like today, she just wants to shake him and tell him that it has no feelings. They're objects and he's been using the wrong pronoun all this time. She wants to tell him that there's a beautiful big world out there. A so much better world than what they're living in. A world with eight billion other people. A world with colour. A world with plentiful opportunities.

All his life, this is his norm. He was born here, raised here. She wants him to experience life like a normal five-year-old. He's missing out on a lot of things already like making friends, playing with other kids just like his age, going to an actual school and not just sparing two to three hours out of their day for them to go to 'kindergarten'.

Rubbing her eyes, "Christopher, who - _holy shit!_ " she exclaimed, grabbing a pair of her slippers from under the bed when she saw who - _more like what_ \- he's been talking to.

With one swing, her slipper flung across the room, hitting the nearby wall as a result. Successfully scaring the rat, it scampered back to where it came from.

Somewhere behind the kitchen wall.

Christopher shrieked as he jumped backwards, accidentally stepping on a plate that just happened to be there.

She had frightened him.

He had frightened her.

 _Rats._

She hates rats. _She hates it_. She can't stand it. Everyone who knows her knows her that. Rats are filthy and disgusting and hideous and disturbing. Only infesting in dirty environments. A proof of how much of a dump this hellhole is.

"Christopher! What the hell is wrong with you?" she shouted and got a brush and dustpan to sweep up the broken pieces of the plate.

"You made him gone!" he shouted back at her.

"Yea, well, you should thank me for getting rid of _it_."

Rats are _it_. Not _him_.

"What was this doing on the floor anyway? Now we're down to two big plates and one small, that's it, Christopher, I can't -" she growled, fisting through her hair.

Her migraine is getting worse. Her head feels like it's about to explode.

"Mouse was liking the crumbs. So, I let him have some." he protested, crossing his arms around his small chest.

She cringed at how he's talking about a rat.

It's a freaking rat. Not a mouse.

New York City is crawling with rats, especially at night. That's when they like to mingle. And she hates going home alone because she can't face those creatures all by herself. _Fear frozen_. She needs someone to help snap out of her irrationality.

It's a rational fear.

"Christopher!" she scolded and dragged the stove out from the wall, from where the rat had just ran into. And as expected, she came face-to-face with a little crack at the bottom of the wall.

"He was real. I saw him."

She rolled her eyes, getting a bundle of aluminium foil from the kitchen cabinet and started pushing balls into the cracks.

"Please don't." he whimpered.

"I'm sorry." she shook her head, "But where there's one there's ten."

"That's crazy math, Ma. You're dumb." he pouted.

She can't hear him. She's blocking out his angry wails and continued stuffing foil paper into the holes.

"Listen," she held him hard by the shoulders. He's still crying and she allowed his tears to cascade down his cheeks, exploding in ripples when they hit the floor. "Christopher, listen...okay. If we let him stay, we'd soon be overrun with his babies. Stealing our food, bringing in germs on their filthy paws."

"They could have my food! I'm not hungry! He's my friend! I don't have any friends!"

 _Arghhhhh!_

"Christopher..." she said in clenched teeth, pinching the bridge of her nose.

He's not going to listen.

She must feel sorry for him but she's not. Sooner or later, he's going to get over it.

She can't deal with him right now.

Sighing loudly, she saw no point in arguing with a five-year-old. She's right and he's wrong. He's not having any of it and so is she. Stubbornness runs in the family. Montgomeries are not only manipulative, they're also stubborn.

So, she shoved the stove back to the wall and hurried to flop back onto the bed. Stuffing her pillow over her head, she growled into the mattress, and drowned out his cries until she finally dozed off.

It was almost six when she finally woke up. And like every dreadful time she wakes up, reality hits her hard. _Screaming at her_. She held onto the blanket tighter, gathering herself. _She's still here_. She's not in her brownstone.

 _She wants to go home._

Groaning as she sat up, she ran her hands through her tousled hair, nauseous. _Very nauseous_. Her head still feels heavy. Maybe even heavier. She feels worse than before, to be honest.

She crawled out of bed, reached out for something sturdy when the room began to spin.

 _...Inhale...exhale...inhale...exhale..._

She told herself when she suddenly had the urge to vomit.

When she was steady enough to walk, she head over to the sink to wash her face. The cool speckles made her feel slightly better and she waddled over to Christopher who was now engrossed in his favourite book - Jack and the Beanstalk.

It's his favourite because it reminds him of them. They are just like Jack and his mother. _Poor_. They love each other very much.

"Hey." she said softly, combing through his long locks. He looked up at her with his knitted brows and just as quickly went back to ignoring her.

"Can I have a kiss?" she smiled apologetically at him.

He shook his head.

She gave him a small smile and reached over to tuck the loose strands behind his ear, "Ok. Can I kiss you then?"

He shook his head again.

"Three kisses?"

That's for when she's sorry and she is so very sorry. She didn't mean to shout at him.

He shook his head, "No, five. I'm five now, remember?"

 _How can she not?_

Her baby's a big boy now.

And so she smiled. She knows he couldn't stay mad at her for too long. "Ok, c'mere." she lifted him off the rocking chair with a huff and sat down, placing him on her lap. He giggled when she placed a kiss to his forehead, then both of his cheeks. "That tickles!" he said when she kissed his nose. And lastly, she kissed his lips.

"I love you, Christopher."

"Love you too, Ma."

They had instant noodles for dinner tonight and since the bananas are about to go past overripe, they had to eat as much as they could.

Bananas are Christopher's favourite. So he doesn't mind stuffing himself with the sweet fruit. Besides he likes it best when they're brown and squishy because they're much sweeter, like candy.

Again she wasn't doing much of the eating, it was all Christopher, since every time she tries swallowing, she just kept gagging the food back up.

 _Two more hours till he's here._

"Ma, can I have cake?"

"Sure. Just a piece. But don't force yourself if you're already full. You've had a lot to eat today." she said but he's already grabbing a piece and skipping towards her by the time she finished her sentence.

Addison smiled, unable to stop staring at the little boy who's munching on the cake in his hands. Crumbs landed everywhere around them and she suddenly had the presage that the old her would never allow that in her brownstone.

"It's crunchy, Ma." he laughed, "Have some. You haven't eat any food all day, Ma."

He looked worriedly at her, a lump rose in her throat and she started to wonder if it's - if this sickness is something more than just withdrawals.

"I can't, sweetheart. Ma just don't feel good today."

"Is it wrist?" he stroke his fingers over the bump on the centre of her right wrist.

She nodded, though she doesn't really know for sure what's wrong with her.

"Why don't you take the pills?" he shrugged.

"I'm all out."

"Why don't you ask?"

"I did but _he_ didn't come by last night." she pointed at the trash bag by the door.

He placed a finger to his temple. She knows that look, he's thinking.

"Hey, it's nothing for you to worry about, okay?" she assured him. It melts her heart that he's so innocent, trying to think of ways to make her feel better. "C'mon, let's continue reading. You want me to read or do you want to read this time?"

"I'll read." he beamed, then picked up his last bite of cake and munched away quickly before speaking again.

 _Don't talk with your mouth full._

She twirled her fingers around his silky hair, kissing the top of his head when he began reading.

And of course, it's Jack and the Beanstalk.

"Once upon a time, there was a boy named Jack who lived with his poor widowed mother. They had sold almost everything they owned to buy food. When their last-"

He stopped and scrunched up his forehead and she's taken aback to when her mother used to scold her for doing the same thing - _if you want wrinkles, carry on_ \- seemingly thinking about something. "Ma, why does it say Jack and his mother? Why can't it be Christopher and Ma?"

She laughed, "Oh, it sure can. It's just that the author chose to name this little boy 'Jack' like I chose to name my handsome little boy 'Christopher'."

And so he read it again, replacing _Jack and his mother_ with Christopher and Ma.

It's cute. It's touching. It's perfect.

 _He's perfect._

It brought tears to her eyes.

Again, he stopped midway. She sniffled and wiped her hands across her face, afraid that she had concerned him by tearing up.

She rubbed his back, feeling the small holes of his sleep shirt. "What's wrong, Christopher?"

He's thinking again. She doesn't know why but she could just watch him make that face all day long.

 _She has plenty of time in here._

They're never getting out of here.

"Let's ask for a new book for treat."

It's their weekly treat, which should just be called a treat for whenever _he's_ in a good mood because sometimes _he_ wouldn't bring what she asked for. _He'd_ pick a fight with her and of course, that entails in no treat at all.

She chewed her bottom lip and massaged her still aching temples, remembering the night she had asked him for a new book.

Of course she had asked for something educational.

"I did. A few weeks ago. I wanted you to have a new book for your birthday. But _he_ said to quite bugging _him_ , don't we have a whole shelf of them already."

Words straight out of his filthy mouth.

"A whole shelf? We could fit like a hundreds of books up there."

 _Exactly._

She wants to go home. To their library at the brownstone. She wants to go home. To buy all the books in the world for Christopher.

 _How many publications of medical journals had she missed already?_

 _Thousands?_

"He thinks we should just watch TV. All day long."

Christopher straightened up at that. She knows he wouldn't mind.

"Then our brains will rot like his." she spat, contempt in her tone.

Since it's her turn to pick the channel tonight, she settled with the Wildlife Planet. She knows Christopher thinks it's boring - she would too at a five-year-old level - and would very much opt for something much more exciting, thrilling and lively but those channels poses questions, lots and lots of questions, and currently, she's in no state to answer them.

She's so exhausted that her head feels like it's about to explode.

They have about an hour before he comes by which means bed time for Christopher.

Staring at the humongous box of a television - of course, it's not a thin and sleek flatscreen - she's watching as a bale of olive ridley sea turtles come together on a beach - she couldn't quite catch the name of the beach - to lay their eggs in the sand.

 _A biological mystery_ , as the marine biologists calls it. But it isn't much of a mystery to her. Maybe they're all coming together to nest their younglings in hiding because there's a bad turtle in the ocean. They're doing whatever they can to keep their babies safe. Just like her.

Such theory wouldn't have made any sense to her seven years ago. _It's far fetched._ Seven-years-ago-Addison would've laughed out loud at that. She wouldn't even dare to acknowledge the hypothesis.

She's a scientist. She would need concrete and extensive evidence, proving of statement and statistics to counter that theory.

But she's also a mother. She's a mother now. She understands that a mother's instinct is the most powerful weapon on earth.

Stronger than bones and always as accurate as a doctor's diagnosis.

* * *

 _ **Five Years Ago**_

* * *

She remembered the night following Christopher's birth. She had wrapped him up in a warm blanket, holding him as tight as ever. Not taking her eyes off of him for even a second. She doubted she had even blinked.

Right then and there, she vowed to never let him go, no matter the circumstance. _Never_. And that's one vow she truly intend to keep.

She've seen thousands and thousands of babies in her career and she have had, numerous times, expressed her content for their perfection.

 _He's/she's perfection._

 _He's/she's beautiful._

 _He's/she's the cutest._

But Christopher is the most beautiful baby she've ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. _He really is._

Brown locks. Twinkling blue eyes. Perfect ten fingers and toes.

 _He was so gorgeous._

Adrenaline was the only fuel coursing through her veins and that itself kept her from feeling the aftereffects of childbirth.

"Please, you need to take us to the hospital! Please!" she begged the second _he_ walked through the metal door. She tried to latch onto _him_ but _he_ roughly yanked _his_ arm away. "Please! Please! He was breeched and he wasn't breathing for a well. There could be something wrong. He needs to be checked at a hospital. He may have developmental delays, cerebral palsy, autism, ADHD-"

"Now, now, hold it right there, missy, I don't like it when you start with that medical gibberish."

"Ok. I'm sorry. Just, I'm sorry, please..." she stammered.

"Is he breathing?"

"Yes, but-"

"But what? Why you so worked up about nothing? This how you doctors scam us for our money." _he_ took a step towards her on the bed, leaning over to reach for Christopher, "Let me have a look at the little one."

"Noooooo!" she screeched, turning around to hide her newborn.

 _He_ grabbed her by the hair, twisting it around _his_ hand until _he_ had a tight hold, with _his_ other hand _he_ grabbed her chin squeezing has hard as _he_ could and she cried out, screaming at _him_ to let go of her. "Shut up! Shut the fuck up and stop crying! So help me God if _it_ starts screaming ... This is your speciality, right? You fix him."

 _He_ released her neck and she haled as much oxygen as she could, almost choking in the process.

"This is my specialty but I don't have anything in this fucking dump."

He needs a lot of tests and vaccinations. An MRI to see whether there were any injuries to his brain.

"Tell you what," _he_ said amusingly, "since you just had a kid, I'm gonna let that one slide. Understood?"

She just looked at _him_ right in the eyes. Pent-up pain and rage poured from her in a torrent of sobs and tears until she felt as if she were coming apart.

 _He's_ never going to let them go. But she can't give up now.

Snatching her by her hair again, _he_ yanked her towards _him_. "Understood?" The hold on her hair tightened as _he_ shouted.

"Yes." her voice quivered and she closed her eyes, grimacing at the pain. Everything and everywhere was aching. She's finally experiencing the pain that her patients so desperately demanded for more pain medication. But the most prominent pain was in her heart. For her son. She's scared for him. It's not only her now; he's trapped in here too.

"So, how I see it is you have two options. Option number one, I take him. You stay here. Option number two, the both of you stay and you pray he doesn't end up retarded."

"No. No. No." she placed Christopher gently on the bed and painfully pulled herself to her feet, following suit as _he_ headed for the door, "Please. Please. Please take us both. I won't say a word. I promise. You can say I don't speak English and that I'm your wife. And once we're done, we'll come back here. I won't say anything. Please, please, come back! I'm begging you..."

But the door had already slammed shut.

* * *

"Ma, that's weird. But the turtles mothers are gone already." he said when the sea turtle hatchlings liberated themselves from their nest. Orienting themselves to the brightest horizon, and dash toward the sea. "I wonder if they meet sometime in sea, the mother's and the babies, if they know each other or maybe they just swim by."

"No, they're never going to see each other again."

She wondered if the mother turtles cries every night. She knows she would. She would worry out of her mind until she drove herself to insanity. Maybe even then, she'll still worry.

 _Keeping Christopher here with her was the right thing to do, right?_

 _That's what a good mother would do, right?_

 _Should she have taken up on his offer that night?_

She yawned, "I think it's enough fun for one night."

He nodded, agreeing with her. She can see that he's sleepy too. "You're right, Ma. My eyes are heavy like from Bob the Builder's bricks.

She giggled and he wrapped his little arms around her neck as she lifted him in her arms. He's heavy, she noticed. Or maybe she's just getting weaker and weaker by the day.

He tangled his fingers in her hair and hummed something closed to her ear, snuggling close before laying him in the cupboard.

Giving him a big kiss, she tucked him into the duvet and handed him his blanket - the same one she had wrapped him in when he was born - so he could feel safe.

"For a song, I want funny." he said softly. It's dark but she can still see the shine in his eyes.

"Litttle Boy Blue, come blow your horn-"

"The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn." he sang.

"Where is the boy that looks after the sheep?"

"He's under the haystack, fast asleep." he yawned.

She held him close one last, kneeling against the furniture and swept back a few sleek hairs on his forehead and she can't help but smile.

"Good night room." he whispered sleepily, "Good night stove. Good night Trusty Toaster Oven."

"Goodnight table." she grinned.

"Good night plant. Good night bed."

"Good night air." she added.

"Goodnight, Ma."

"Goodnight Chris-"

 _Beep beep_

 _He's_ here.

 _He's_ early.

She jumped up, cursing when her head knocked against the roof of the cupboard.

"Ma... _he's_ here." his blues mirrored her terrified ones.

Quickly shutting the cupboard, "It's okay, baby. Just close your eyes. Don't make a sound." she whispered.

* * *

A gust of cold wind aviated into the room, _shivering_ , and she can feel her heart thumping hard in her chest. Her blood pressure must have skyrocketed ever since being imprisoned. She's fairly certain that her anxiety will be the best of her.

Though anxiety doesn't cause long-term hypertension, episodes of anxiety can cause dramatic, temporary spikes in blood pressure. And if it occurs frequently, such as every day, which it has, it can cause damage to blood vessels, heart and kidneys.

She's probably thinking too much about it, but that's the sole purpose of anxiety.

 _Isn't it?_

Curious irises peered through the slats of the cupboard and she mouthed at Christopher to stay very quiet, that it's okay.

Her back faced the door, like it always should whenever _he_ comes - she remembered her lesson - and with a thump, indicating that the door has already been closed, she turned around on shaky feet.

It's quite early for _him_ to be here since _he_ usually arrives at around nine or past nine. It had barely touched eight thirty and now, _he's_ here. Christopher hadn't even fallen asleep yet.

She took a deep breath as she's always terrified whenever _he's_ around but that emotion would never register on her face because she's using what her mother had thought her years and years ago. _The mask._

She's always wearing the mask when _he's_ around.

"Hey." she said softly with a smile, "Let me help you with that." she hurried and took the load of groceries from _his_ arms and as she was about to place them on the kitchen counter, _he_ grabbed her by the arm. Not too tightly but tight enough for her to still herself because she knows the thick hand that's clutching her could very well snap hers in a flick of _his_ wrist.

She doesn't need any more broken bones.

"Where's my kiss?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." she mumbled, swallowing the bile that almost made it's presence.

Stepping towards _him_ nervously, she willed herself to not be too obvious with the quivering. _He_ wouldn't like that. _He_ will be angry and that's the last thing she wants _him_ to be. _Do as you're told._ And so she reluctantly pressed her lips against _his_ , counting _1, 2, 3_ in her head before parting.

"Now, that's more like it." _he_ grinned and she smiled. She hates smiling. She hardly ever smiles now because smiling are for people who are happy and she's not; she's not one of those people.

Her chest was rising and falling and it's not the good kind of rise and fall.

 _Terrified, she wants to cry._

Quick on her heels, before _he_ could have the chance to try anything else on her, she strode to the kitchen to put the bags down. She peeked in, relieved when the small orange bottle gleamed at her. Good, that means she doesn't need to start an argument with _him_ tonight.

She can finally catch a break and hopefully sleep peacefully.

"So, how was your day?" she asked, slowly putting the groceries away as she does. Slowly, taking her time because she doesn't want to go to bed just yet.

She doesn't want to sleep with _him_.

 _Not ever._ Though she knows she has to. _Not yet._

But the sooner the ... _you know, whatever you call it ..._ is over, the better because the sooner _he'll_ be out of here.

But the longer she put that chore off, the better, also, because sometimes - just sometimes, when God's on her side - _he'd_ be too tired and _he'd_ doze off the second _he_ lay down next to her. And that's more than okay for her. And that's a chance she's willingly to take.

"You know I'd like to come home to a clean place once in a while."

Frowning, she turned right around. _He_ was sitting on the edge of the tub. _His_ scowling, piercing gaze was burning a hole through the thin material of her sleep shirt. She doesn't understand what _he's_ talking about. Everything has already been shelved, placed, washed, scrubbed, brushed and dusted. This place is not a mess. _Definitely not._ It's clean. _As clean as this dump can be._

But she knows what _he's_ doing; _he's_ undermining her, trying to demean what's left of her dignity.

"I'm sorry. I promise I will do a better job tomorrow." she whispered, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

"It's no crying matter. I understand you were raised like a princess in that castle you lived in with mommy and daddy," _he_ said with contempt, "And now, look how you doin'. For a princess, I'd say good job. Could be better but...hey, I just realised, you're the opposite of Cinderella. She scrubbed floors before becoming a princess. Yes, the floors needs more scrubbing, honey." _he_ chuckled.

She nodded, facing away when tears began to fill her eyes.

 _Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry, Addison._

Her hands were already aching so badly from today's scrubbing and since tomorrow's Friday that means it's laundry day, she don't think her wrist can take any more of the abysmal pressure.

"Looks tasty." _he_ gestured to the last few pieces of Christopher's cake.

 _He_ dragged a plastic chair towards the dinning table, flopped down and waited for her.

 _For what?_

To serve him, of course.

"Oh, it's just the last of the birthday cake."

"Should have reminded me. I could have brought him something. What's he now, six?" he raised a brow.

She didn't answer _him_.

Pursing her lips in a thin line, she paused, she doesn't like talking about Christopher to _him_. She avoids bringing her son up at all cost. Contemplating her options - to correct _him_ or not to correct _him_ \- she saw no point in _him_ knowing Christopher's age since it wasn't like _he_ genuinely cared. But that dilemma wasn't a dilemma for too long when a whisper killed their silence.

"Five." A soft voice said.

"Christopher..." she hissed.

 _He_ laughed. "So _it_ speaks."

 _It?_

She shuddered at the pronoun. Truly offended that _he_ just called her son _it_.

She wants to shout at _him_. _Should she?_

Her eyes darted around the room in a panic when _he_ got down to _his_ knees in front of the cupboard. Moulding her sore back against the cool wall, she gripped the end of the table hard. Her wrist were already screaming at her but she welcomed the pain.

"Hey, buddy. Want to come out of there and try on your new jeans?"

The moment she opened her mouth, wanting immensely to stop _him_ from reaching any further, no words could voice out. Her chest cavity felt weighty, she's having trouble breathing. Sweat began to gather in folds and she can taste a faint tinge of copper on her tongue.

She tried again. Half glad when actual words voiced out but this time it came out in a desperate plea. "He's nearly asleep. Ignore him."

 _Ignore him, please. Please!_

Holding her breath, she waited for either of them to not react, for _him_ to not yank the cupboard doors open - breaking _his_ part of their deal, for Christopher to remember what she had told him - _never come out of there, I'll come and get you_ \- but he's a child, kids are stubborn.

"Ok. Ok." _he_ said, standing again, "Can I have a slice then?"

She was rubbing her wrist, flexing it around a bit before she spoke. "It's getting stale. But if you really want-"

"No, forget it, you're the boss." _he_ drawled.

 _Sarcasm._

She's not the boss.

 _His_ sarcasm scares her.

She didn't say anything but stare into her palms. She's too terrified to move even.

 _He_ could snapped at any second.

"I'm just the delivery boy, right. I take out your trash, trek around the kids aisles, up the ladder to de-ice your skylight. At your service, my princess." _he_ put one hand on _his_ belly and the other on _his_ back, bowing at her.

It's not her fault. _It's his._ _He's_ keeping her here against her will. She wouldn't need to ask for _his_ help if she wasn't locked up. She could do her own shopping. She could take out her own trash. She could de-ice that damn skylight all by herself. But then again, she's not stupid enough to come back in here if _he_ ever lets her out.

 _She wants to go home._

Her lips are trembling now. So she blinked back tears like she always does, like her mother had thought her. She's not going to cry. _Addison doesn't cry._ She's tired of crying. It's all wasted hydration because she's never going to leave this place.

"Thank you. Thanks so much for that, it's much brighter now."

"There. Didn't hurt, did it?"

"I'm so sorry. Thank you very much."

"Like pulling teeth sometimes." _he_ spat.

"And thank you for the groceries and the jeans."

"You're welcome."

"Here," she took a plate from the cabinet with a fork in hand, "I'll get you a slice, maybe the middle's not too bad." she handed _him_ the plate and smiled.

She didn't forget to smile.

 _Who knew Bizzy's life lessons could actually come in handy?_

She never really had to use it with Derek because just like her mother she had forgotten how to wear her mask.

"Yup, pretty stale." _he_ said with a mouthful.

 _Told you! You fucking moron!_

"Oh, you could try another slice, maybe-"

"It doesn't matter. I'm sure it's all shit."

That's what she've been saying all this time.

She internally rolled her eyes - internally because she doesn't want to be caught insulting _him_ and risk getting whipped - and threw the rest of the cake into the bin.

Watching TV - Jimmy Fallon's on tonight - she's trying with all her might to not close her weighted lids. It's difficult to keep them open when they weigh a tonne.

She walked the short distance to the refrigerator, grabbing a glass as she does and poured herself a little orange juice before heading back to the small couch.

 _God, how she wished she could pour herself something much much stronger._

 _Crystal clear_ , that's her go to distilled of drink.

 _Gin. Vodka. Rum_. Maybe even tequila. She can't stand the distillate but right now, in this predicament, she couldn't care less. She'll drink anything.

 _He's_ outside for now, on the phone with whoever, whatever, she really doesn't care. _Not at all_. Since no calls can be received from the inside because _he_ had installed some kind of signal blocking device that prevents phones from receiving signals from base stations, _he_ usually takes _his_ calls outside. And she couldn't be anymore grateful for the stunt she pulled years ago - she was so close to dialling Derek's number when _he_ woke up - even though the consequence resulted in her being starved for four long days because the longer _he's_ out, the better. She's happy since _he's_ not here to constantly patronise her.

 _Beep. Beep._

The door opened and she sank further into the flimsy couch, hugging her knees tighter.

It's quiet.

Christopher's asleep. She had checked when _he_ was out.

They're both quiet.

She's not looking for any trouble which meant to continue being engrossed with whatever she was watching. _Pretending to at the very least._ She switched channels because Jimmy Fallon's too happy for her. He's happy. The celebrity guest - she thinks it Sarah Paulson - is happy. And she, she's not happy.

 _She's jealous._

Everyone's happy but her.

So, she let herself to evaluate about what her life would have been if she had just stayed on that stoop, if she had made better choices.

She shouldn't have slept with Mark, she knows that. That doesn't need any more evaluation.

 _Would Derek have eventually open the door?_

He had to. He had work the next morning.

 _Would Derek have forgiven her?_

Maybe, in time. But she'd never know the answer to that question, now would she?

 _What about her and Mark? Would their infidelity blossom into something else?_

She don't think so. He's just a friend... _was a friend?_

She was thinking about Derek when she heard the distinctive sound of a belt unbuckling and a zipper sliding down. All awake now, she uncapped the familiar orange bottle, popping two into her mouth, then downing the rest of the juice. Looking into the bottle, the many identical tiny oval shaped pills with it's dosage engraved stared back at her and she found herself popping two more, swallowing dry.

 _She's not an addict._ She's just in a lot of pain.

So, she allowed herself to daydream about the way Derek would stroke her hair whenever she had a headache. The way his fingers would find the small of her back when they're out with friends, colleagues, just so she knows he's there, that he's hers, that he wants her. She thought of the way his voice rumbled in her ear when they're cuddled in bed in the darkness. She thought of the way he hugged her when she burst out crying when she lost her first baby as an intern. Thought of the way it steadied her. Four months into the job, no deaths. _Not at all._ Not until one sunny summer when her Chief put her solely in charge of one of the Watson twins that she helped delivered the other day and he knew entirely that that baby wouldn't survive through the night. Needless to say her baby died on her watch. Her Chief had tricked her into thinking that she had killed him just so she could be thought a lesson on boundaries, on not getting too attached to her patients.

Derek must be going out of his mind, or Derek must _have_ been going out of his mind - she don't know which. But the thought of that hurts her almost as much as her pounding headache.

She's not sleepy anymore. The Percocet hadn't yet worked it's magic. She took four pills, double her normal dosage. It's just that two innocent pills are no longer acquiring her with the analgesic effect she craves.

 _She's not an addict._ She just needs a bit more since she've been taking Percocet for an extended period.

At least she told Derek she loves him, she reminded herself that, as his heavy footsteps crept closer and closer. Bouncing off the four walls.

At least she's sure he knows.

He has to believe her.

 _She loves him._

 _Is he playing happily ever after with someone else now?_

 _Is Derek happy?_

 _Happier than he ever was when he was with her?_

 _Was he ever even happy with her?_

"You coming to bed?" _he_ asked tiredly.

She knows it's not really a question. She hasn't got a choice. If she could, she'd say no.

 _No!_

She has to please him.

 _She wants to go home._

 _He's_ just in _his_ underwear now and she nodded, she can't, she doesn't want to look at _him_. Reluctantly switching the TV off, she internally whimper with each agonising step.

 _Oh, how she dread this part of the day!_

She wish she could just be dead.

This is what she gets for enjoying sex a tad bit more than the average classy women.

This is what she gets for cheating on her husband.

This is what she gets for being too clingy.

 _He_ was sitting on _his_ side of the small single bed - the edge - she had to manoeuvre awkwardly to crawl towards the wall.

She doesn't meet his eyes. But she can clearly sense the intent in the air and she swallowed hard.

 _Is Derek too in bed with someone else?_

It's a tight space to fit into but they, she made it work.

Facing the wall, curling over her side, _he_ rolled behind her and yanked her closer. She almost - just almost - flinched when _he_ touched her, when _he_ roughly - _he's_ never gentle - rubbed his cold mangled hand up and down her body, when _his_ breath huffed onto the thin skin of her neck, when she felt _him_ pressing against the back of her thigh.

She needs to have one of those out-of-body experiences right now, but she never does. She's pleading, begging God, asking for His help and guidance, but like always, her prayers were never heard. Maybe she's begging a little too much. Maybe He's tired of her constant whining. Maybe she shouldn't be begging at all. It's pathetic.

Like her mother had always said - _Begging are for the poor and Montgomeries are further from poor._

 _But isn't that what she is now?_

Maybe she ought to just accept.

She closed her eyes, counting each and every creak the stupid bed made as _he_ moved inside of her.

Motionless, she does nothing. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. _It hurts_. Physically, not so much. The pain was coming from somewhere within. _It's psychological_. She doesn't understand why she's still not used to this. It's been seven years.

 _... 97 ... 98 ..._

 _He_ grabbed her by the jaw, using her mandible as leverage as _he_ thrusted harder and harsher. ... _99 ... 100 ..._ She choked back a moan and _he_ laughed at her. Nothing gets past _him_.

 _Derek, I'm here...somewhere...I don't know where I am. I'm alive. I'm stuck. Please help me. Please, Derek._

She wants to stop thinking. She wants to switch off. _For good._ She wants _him_ to stop.

She wants to go home.

 _Can she go home now?_

* * *

 _ **Hey guys! Thank you all for reading. And thank you so much for the amazing and wonderful feedback.**_ _ **I love reading what you guys think!**_ _ **It absolutely motivated me to continue. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and please do review!**_

 _ **Review! Review! Review!**_


	3. Chapter 3 - 2,570 days

**Chapter 3 - 2,570 days**

 _2,570 days. . ._

The biggest question so many people have in life, one that everyone have been seeking to answer for years is, _what happens when we die?_

 _Will we go up in heaven?_ Is there even a heaven? _Will we linger on earth as unrest souls?_ Are ghosts even real? _Will we burn in hell?_ Hell seems to be way more plausible than a fluffy, flowery, bright, and happy-go-lucky world.

Maybe she's already in hell. _No, she's sure she is._ This is her hell. This is her nightmare. This is her doing.

 _But why she is always putting the blame solely on herself?_

It takes two to ruin a marriage. If her husband hadn't been neglectful, she knows she wouldn't need to seek warmth and longing in another man's arms.

He was being an ass that afternoon at the hospital, she recalls. He had ignored her, pretending like he didn't see her filling in her charts at the nurse's station. _How can he not notice a 5'10" (over 6" with heels) redhead? His wife?_ Later that afternoon, she confronted him. He said and she quote - _You're not that special, Addison. Besides, I know I'll see you at home._

Maybe that's the problem, she keeps putting up with his nonsense. Because at the end of the day, he knows she'll always run back to him. _Sprint breathlessly back onto his arms_. And he couldn't be any more on point since she knows and she's never going to deny it - _oh no, she's not_ \- that the second she's out of here, she'll run back to him in a heartbeat. She'll beg him to take her back. She'll say her sorries like a broken record until he believes her. _I'm sorry, Derek. I'm so sorry. You have to know how sorry I am. Please, Derek, please forgive me._ She has her speech ready. She'll beg on her knees if she had to because she needs him.

He still loves her.

 _Right?_

It takes two to ruin a marriage but she was just the last straw to their undoing. She only made things worse for _herself._

 _She don't know for sure._

Science can't prove truth of the afterlife and she's still very much loyal to science because of what she has been through for the past seven years, it's only fair to conclude that there is no one up there. There's no one up there because she's still in here.

 _No one._

A study is being conducted and she is their subject.

Before - years and years ago - when she was still new to this shoebox, when she still had hope, she would kneel beside the bed, peering up the skylight and prayed. Muttering her desperate despairs because she hadn't got a clue on how to pray, the process and the appropriate enchantments. _But God ought to understand her, right?_ He knows all. He knows everything. He knows what's in her heart. He's God after all.

 _So why is she still here?_

 _Why hasn't He worked a miracle and save them?_

 _Is this a lesson?_

If it is, then she thinks it's stupid because there are people far worse than her.

She's a doctor. She saves life. She gives babies a chance in life. She's great at what she does because she invests her all in every case and in every patient until she's all out, both physically and mentally. Then, she'll very careful wrap herself in a cocoon of self-deprivation and pretends she's undaunted.

 _Why can't she go home? She's not the worst person on earth._

At least she don't think she is.

She hadn't slept a wink all night. Only staring at the wall that she's practically pressed into. She couldn't sleep even when her body was screaming at her brain to shut off. _She couldn't._ _He_ snores like a wild bore and takes up two thirds of the bed. Leaving her to curl on her side to accommodate _him_.

 _Everyone else's needs comes before hers now._

She used to have everything. She realised that now. Husband, career, friends, family, houses, money, cars and the list goes on. She was living the life. _A good life._ She was just too arrogant - it's hereditary, so it's not exactly her to blame - and selfish to see that then. _Attention_. She was her Chief's star resident and she was only in her first year. _You're a damn good surgeon_ , her Chief had said to her. She had the attention of hospitals across the country because of her success rate and minimal mortality rate. She was on top of her game. _On her way to being the best of the best._ She made heads turn wherever she goes. _The loud echo of her heels._ She thrives on attention. _Attention_. She had everyone's attention but not from the one person that mattered the most.

 _Derek._

It's been a lifetime since she slept with Derek. A lifetime of seven plus years. Not just slept _slept_ with Derek, but simply slept next to him.

She regards the last time she shared a mattress with him. It's been too long, she can't really remember. He hadn't been home at all since the day he walked in on them. _Three days?_ She thinks so. She've been waiting for him all night since he said he'd come home for dinner. But eight o'clock turned to nine and that turned to ten, he still wasn't home.

She tried calling him. Twice to no avail. She was starving but she kept on waiting. _He's on his way. He'll be here._ Letterman was on that night, she's sure of it.

When he eventually came home, she felt his cold hands on her arm, shaking her. Blinking at him, groggy with sleep, she had apparently fallen asleep on the couch.

"Hey, Addie. Sorry I woke you up." he was kneeling in front of her, fingers playing with her hair.

She mumbled something sleepily and shrugged his hand away from her face.

"I missed dinner. I'm sorry, Addie." he kissed her cheek lightly, "There was some complications with Ms. Lindsay. She didn't make it." he said, brushing her glossy and vibrant hair away from her face.

Wordlessly, she sat up, rubbing her hands over her arms for warmth and he sat next to her on the couch.

 _It was March. A week after Derek's birthday. How can she ever forget that March?_

She hates that she can't really be mad at him. He's doing his job. She would've done the same thing.

"You could've called."

"I should've, I know that, but it was an emergency. It wasn't like I could risk my patient's life to phone you."

There was spite in his tone and she's just too petty to let that slide.

"You could've asked someone." she staggered up the stairs to their bedroom, tired. Both of them too exhausted to start a fresh argument.

 _Maybe in the morning._

The antique clock read fifty-three minutes past twelve. She has exactly six hours and seven minutes before her alarm screams at her. But right now, her stomach was screaming to be fed. She hadn't had anything since lunch.

Derek crawled into bed a little later because she felt his warm lips on her shoulder, whispering, "You didn't eat dinner, did you?"

"S'okay." she muttered sleepily, her eyes still closed and he wrapped his arm around her. "Wasn't hungry anyway." she mumbled and he drew her against his body, holding her close.

That morning as she woke up, the bed was empty even before her alarm went off.

That was the last time she slept with Derek. If only she knew that in three days her life would have taken a turn for the ultimate worse, she wouldn't have ever stopped embracing him.

The insidiously loud clatter of rain droplets hit the tin roof of this fucking hellhole - _bang! bang!_ \- and she's certain her brain was vibrating with each and every patter. It's loud, annoyingly so, rattling the entire room.

Christopher is asking for her milk now as he pulled at the hem of her shirt and she reluctantly allowed him to take one of her breasts. They're sore and painful as he latched onto her right and she cried out, hissing at him to try the left.

Ow...

 _Is it odd that she's still nursing her five-year-old?_

The outside world would think so.

 _But since it's just the two of them in here, it isn't weird, is it?_

There's no one to judge them.

There's no one to criticise them.

There's no one to call them freaks.

It's a very natural occurrence between a mother and her child. She should know, this is her specialty.

She knows he needs to wean off but he's not ready yet. He'll let her know when it's time. And she, she's not ready to let go of the skin-to-skin contact just yet. She loves their bond which only grows stronger, caressing his cheek, watching him as he watch her, the oxytocin surging through their bodies, the love she has for her beautiful boy.

But she just can't take away his comfort, familiarity and solace. Besides breast milk contains powerful nutrients and immunological benefits that's well-acquainted to a child's needs.

That's what she always tells her patients. Breastfeeding is important for every child's growth. She's an advocate for attachment parenting.

 _What would the outsiders ever think of them?_

Smiling, because studies have shown that faking a smile can actually trick the brain into happiness, she looked up at the blurry streaks on the skylight and quietly sang "Singing in the Rain" since it's Christopher's favourite song to sing whenever it's raining.

"Why you didn't tell him before that is my birthday?" he sat up.

 _Oh, goodness. Here we go again!_

She stopped smiling and tucked her t-shirt into her pants. _Him_. "You're meant to be asleep when _he's_ here."

"But if you told _him_ , _he'd_ brung me something."

"Bring. It's bring, not brung." she corrected, "And so _he_ says."

"Yes, _he_ will. _He_ brung - bring us stuffs all the time. You should have told _him_." he crossed his arms around his small chest.

She yawned, stretching her long limbs. "I don't want _him_ bringing you things."

"But _he_ bring us treat-"

"That's different, Christopher." she cut him off, "Those are things we need that I ask _him_ for." she pointed to the dresser, where hung the jeans _he_ brought last night since she had asked for a new pair for Christopher. She had actually asked for a new pair two weeks prior. "There's your new jeans, by the way."

Dragging her feet across the cold concrete, she went over to the other corner to use the _'bathroom'_ , ignoring her son's bickering since like her, he will never back down.

Not any time soon.

 _It's a Montgomery trait._

She checked every box to fulfil the Montgomery trait.

 _Manipulative. Hardheads. Marriage wreckers. Liars. Fake smilers to conceal emotions. And most of all, they excel at holding up their liquor._

That's a Montgomery.

 _We're Addison and Derek. We don't quite._

The longest she hadn't spoken to Derek, ever, was three weeks - _or_ _perhaps seven years_ \- because none of them wanted to give up so easily. But of course when needed, they were professionals at the hospital.

For the life of her, she can't recall what they were fighting about. Petty, for sure, and definitely unnecessary. And most likely provoked by him but surely, instigated to become a gigantic argument by her.

"You could ask _him_ for a present for me. I never got a present in my life."

"Your present was from me, remember? It was the cake."

"I don't want the stinky cake." he yelled and kicked a plastic chair which toppled upside down.

She snagged to the kitchen, opening a few cabinets as she does to distract herself. _What should she do? What should she do?_ Because his wailing is loud and it's bouncing off the walls, ringing in her ears. _Oh, no!_ She can't stay in this shoebox any longer. _She can't._ She needs to find a way out.

 _Breakfast!_ That's right, she needs to think about breakfast, instead of the fit her son's throwing.

He's too old for tamper tantrums.

She knows tantrums are apart of a child's development but they are mostly common between the ages of one to three.

 _Christopher is five._

 _Well, she's thirty-five and she too still throws tantrums._

He's sobbing uncontrollably now. Wet, slippery snot and tears covered his reddened face.

She let him whine and shout for a while because she understands his frustration, because her parents had forgotten her sixth birthday and had went on their trip to Croatia, because she vowed to never treat her child the way her parents did with her and her brother.

She was once five, she too would want to be lavished with gifts. And he would have been, under different circumstances.

He sees it on TV all the time. Kids, joyfully and excitedly ripping the wrappers off their presents and since he's only part Forbes-Montgomery, he doesn't know how to hide his true feelings.

His behaviour right now will never be tolerated by Bizzy. He will definitely be banished to be locked in a closet. _Which closet?_ Any closet that Bizzy pushes you in.

"It's ok." she knelt down in front of him, and held him tight. Rubbing circles on his back to calm him down.

"It might-"

"I can't hear you. Calm down. Take a deep breath."

He did.

"It might-"

"Tell me what's the matter." she said, wiping his tears away with the flat of her palms.

"It might be a dog."

"What might?" she's confused now.

"The present. It might be a dog for real real, and we could call him Jack." he said through the relentless tears.

 _A dog?_

 _Where is this silliness coming from?_

He's spending too much time watching TV.

Wiping his tears away again, she fought the urge to laugh out loud. It's quite funny, actually. _Her son's funny._ Crazy but still, nonetheless hilarious. "You know we don't have room."

They barely have room for themselves.

"Yeah, we do."

"Dogs need walks."

The furtherest walk in this shoebox is from the door to the bedroom, which all in all is merely ten feet apart.

"We walk."

"But a dog-"

"We run every morning, Jack could go beside us. I bet he'd be faster than you."

"Christopher. A dog would drive us nuts."

"No, he wouldn't." he protested.

"Oh, yes, it will." She, herself, is going nuts already. "Cooped up, the barking, the scratching-"

"Jack wouldn't be scratching."

Oh, he doesn't know anything about dogs. They scratch. They bark. They bite. They ruffle. They jump. They run. They walk. The excrete everywhere and anywhere. They simply make a mess of everything. And it will definitely drive itself to insanity.

 _Dogs needs space. A lot of space._

Besides, she's not so much of a dog person. She prefers cats.

So, she rolled her eyes, he's being very unreasonable, and went back to the cabinet to get the box of cereals since she's not in any mood to cook breakfast anymore.

She poured a handful of cereals in their bowls, humming something to block him out.

 _What is she doing debating with a five-year-old who has never seen or touched a dog?_

He growled, stomping towards her. "In the night when you're asleep, I'm going to be awake, I'll pull the foils out of the holes so Mouse will come back."

"Don't be silly."

"I'm not silly, you're silly." he shouted.

"Listen, I understand-"

"Mouse and Jack are my friends." he screamed again and all she wants is for him to quiet down, to stop screaming.

Now, she understands why the maniac hates it when she screams. It's loud, irritating and piercing.

If the maniac was here ... she remembered the last time she screamed on top of her lungs - _stop, get off me, no, leave me alone, don't, please don't_ \- he knocked a tooth out.

* * *

 _ **Seven Years Ago**_

* * *

"Don't ! Don't!" she tried screaming but her cries were muffled by the thick hands that were clumped to her mouth.

She can't go through this again. She just can't. She'd rather be killed than be held prisoner, than be used and violated in such heinous way.

"Stop yelling!"

"Ok! Ok! Just let me go! I promise I won't tell anyone!"

 _He_ just laughed at her and shoved her up against the wall, _he_ pinned her there, staring into her with a smile that reminded her of a reptile's grin.

"I promise. If you let me go right now, I promise I won't tell anyone..." her voice quavered, but it was low and calm. She learned that from Derek. He's always calm, even in threatening situations. "It's no big deal. All you have to do is let me go."

"You really think I'm dumb enough to believe you?!" _his_ sneer twisted _his_ face. "Like I said yesterday or four weeks ago, you're never getting out of here."

Ice-cold shock courses through her. _Again_. She felt _his_ fingers biting into her flesh, and her breath came in short gasps, but as she tried to steady it, to take a deep breath, all she could think of was what _he'd_ just said.

 _...you're never getting out of here._

She's never getting out of here.

She've been in here for what seemed like an eternity already. She wants to go home to her husband.

 _He_ purposefully pressed _his_ body, hard, onto hers - _his_ weight crushing her dainty self - and eagerly smashed _his_ mouth against hers in order to shut her up. She pressed her lips tightly against one another, not letting _him_ in, and wiggled around to try and kick _him_ off of her. _His_ tongue and mouth moved roughly, sloppily and aggressively as she tried pushing _him_ away. Failing miserably when _he_ chomped down on her bottom lip. Crying in pain, she can taste the bursting copper in her mouth, and that gave _him_ the prime juncture to jam _his_ tongue inside. She choked on the nausea that almost made its presence, feeling absolutely repulsed at herself.

But she's a Montgomery, so, anger and stubbornness gotten ahold of her and she too saw her chance to chomped down on his tongue, giving _him_ a taste of _his_ own medicine.

She watched in slow motion as _his_ right arm pulled back into the air, balling into a fist while the left was crushing her trachea. Shutting her eyes tight, she was crazy enough to provoke a psycho.

Sure enough, a powerful blow connected with her cheek, making her head snap to the side. A small pain-filled whimper escaped her lips as she struggled to stay awake.

"You shouldn't have done that, pretty face." _he_ hissed, looking at her in pity. Like _his_ actions towards her were all because of her now.

"I don't want to hurt you but-" _he_ didn't stop to waste any time in delivering the next couple of blows to her face and abdomen. Literally winding her. She curled to her side to avoid _his_ batter but the hits kept on coming. Each one much harder than the other. Each one rattling her bones even louder. Her mouth now tasted strongly of metal. The heavy blows had left her feeling groggy and she gave up. Knowing she hadn't got a chance anymore.

"And that's to let you know who's in charge."

* * *

With her tongue, she felt for the space that once crowned her second molar. _Thank goodness it's not one of her incisors._ It takes a lot of strength to knock a tooth out and he did when he bashed his fists into her skul.

Bizzy wouldn't be pleased with her missing tooth, it had taken them a lot of money and time for her to have perfect a set of teeth.

 _Not everyone is naturally blessed with perfect teeth structure._

Hers just happened to be all over the place. And thank you for cosmetic dentistry because if it was for the orthodontic headgear that she had to wear for over a year, she'd be, like Bizzy had said, ugly.

"Ma!" Christopher's now right in front of her, snapping her back to the present with his screaming. "Ma, you're not listening to me! Maaaa!"

She has had enough. If he screams one more time, she's going to have a mental breakdown.

"There is no Mouse and there definitely will be no Jack!" she shouted.

"Yea, there is. And I love you them. I love them more than I love you."

 _But I love you more than anything in this world._

She knows his words shouldn't hurt her but it did. _It really really did._ A lot more than she would like to admit. The love of her life, her baby doesn't love her. _No, he does._ He's just angry. Everyone says things they don't mean when they're angry.

 _He doesn't mean it. Does he?_

Closing her burning eyes, she brought her fingers to her lips, and swallowing the tears that were too proud to fall down her cheeks.

"Also, Mouse is my real friend and you made him gone-"

"Yea," she croaked, "so he won't run over your face in the night and bite your nose off."

"No! I never knew Mouse would bite my face, I thought that was only vampires."

"And since Jack's your friend and he must love you too, why don't you ask him to make you breakfast!"

And so she left him there, angry, and began cleaning the room like she was told to do so.

* * *

 _The sun enables life. The rain grants it safe passage._

It began as a whispering in the air. The day had been a beautiful one and the sky was like a dome of plasma-blue. The clouds had looked like airy anvils drifting under the gleaming disc of sun.

But just as quickly because the weather is unpredictable here in Seattle or must he say predictable, a variable, the once gleaming sky turned gloomy and grey. It is a shrieking, keening omen of the carnage to follow. He knows that.

He didn't sleep a wink last night. _Not at all_. He couldn't stop thinking about _her_. Today's the day that everything fell apart and the miserable year that followed.

Like the rainy sky above that held meaning to this melancholy day, he tried not think about today. _But he can't._ It's forever etched in his mind, like _her_. He'll always love her. Of course, he will. _How can one just fall out of love with someone they've known for a third of their life?_

One might think he must with what _she_ had done and it had taken him for _her_ to be forever gone to realise how much of a lousy husband he was. And with that in mind, a lesson learned, he's never going to make that same mistake.

 _It's March 7th._ The day his life changed. The day everything in his life fell apart. _March 7th._ Seven years ago. A mistake he made. The beginning of the end. _He shouldn't have._ He knows he shouldn't have. But he was angry. He was so hurt. _How could she?_ Regardless, he shouldn't have done what he did and also, _she_ should not have done what _she_ did. But if he hadn't, _she_ wouldn't be forever gone.

She doesn't know about New York and he has no intentions in telling her. All he told her was that he needed a change of scenery, a new perspective, a change in pace because New York's too hectic.

The clouds raced across the sky, thrumming with the charged energy they are desperate to release. _Rain._ It starts with big, sopping drops of moisture. They are wild and indiscriminate, plump missiles of mass destruction that splatter onto the soft soil. The topsoil turns into slushy goo, but it doesn't matter because he is sleeping next to -

Then an unearthly caterwauling sound fills the air. The wind whips up into frenzy.

 _How is it possible?_

He finds it charming that such a big noise can come from such a little person.

Then, she is abruptly awake, cutting off the nasally echo midair.

 _Finally!_

He's been waiting for hours.

"Morning." he chimed, tucking her sandy blonde hair behind her ear and leaned in for a good morning kiss.

"Were you watching me sleep?" she said softly, rubbing her eyes as she looked at him.

"Maybe."

He smiled and placed a kiss on her neck.

She sighed, raising a brow, and linked her arms around him, "What are you, some kind of weirdo who watches women sleep?"

He placed a second kiss on her shoulder and ran his hand down to grab the bottom of his dress shirt, which - admittedly - looks so much better on her.

"Maybe."

* * *

"Ma, I'm hungry." she heard Christopher call out for her as she laid with her arms across her eyes, on the ridiculously small and uncomfortable, snot-green couch. Her long limbs curled to her chest so she could accommodate her entire length.

Well, he should've thought about his words before saying what he had said. After all, she is only human. She gets hurt sometimes, like a normal person would. Even though she'd never register the emotion on her face - _never_ \- that doesn't mean she doesn't have any feelings.

A Montgomery never reveals their true emotions, it's unheard of. A Montgomery buries their feelings, buries them deep. Deeper and deeper into the earth. Deeper than six feet.

She learned that; young. Like all Montgomeries do.

Since she hated her upbringing, hated her mother's stupid sets of rules, hated her father's dirty little secrets, hated that her father had passed her with the adulterous gene, hated the way she was thought to view life, she promised at a young age that she'd never be cold, she'd never force ridiculous rules upon her children, she'd never cheat and she'd never view life negatively.

But it's all she's doing now. She has turned into her mother. _Oh, goodness! She's Bizzy, isn't she?_

She's being unnecessarily cold to Christopher. _Isn't she?_ But she's just so exhausted. Drained of every last drop of blood, glow, strength and stamina. Her depletion just worsened when she got here.

She had spent the entire morning scrubbing, brushing, wiping, dusting, washing - she had hand washed their laundry - like she was instructed to do so. She can't disappoint _him_ tonight. Hoping that tonight, _he'll_ be satisfied. She can't stand it whenever _he's_ criticising her.

She's a highly sought after doctor - OB/GYN.

 _Well, she was._ She _was_ highly sought after. And again, her aching wrist is a reminder of what her life could've been if only she had the willpower to keep her desperation at wits.

Ignoring Christopher when he called out again, she looked at the clock, eleven minutes past three in the afternoon, it read. She's hungry too. Or at least she thinks she is. She hadn't had anything since yesterday's lunch - maybe that's why she's always exhausted, she barely eats - and she knows she should eat something, anything but she just doesn't have any desire too.

She eats sometimes but not all the time. She picks at her food like a child would and complains when Christopher follows.

 _"Don't play with your food, Christopher." she'd scold him._

She's well aware of her hypocrisy. _But isn't that what parents are?_

Hypocrites.

They hadn't said a word to each other since this morning's quarrel, anger fuelling her son's silence while pain on her part. So, she started her day with Pilates and he took out his _'schoolbooks'_ and proceeded to complete the math questions she had prepared for him.

He's learning division now.

 _Silence_.

They still function well in silence.

 _Montgomeries are stubborn too._

"Maaaaaa..." he's closer now, she noticed. Not at the table anymore. Then, she felt his soft little hand on her cheek, rubbing to wake her up.

She pried her tired eyes open. "What?"

"I'm hungry."

"Oh, yeah." she chuckled, "I said to ask your friends to cook you your meals, remember?"

Shaking his head, he jumped around, whining, "Maaaaaa..."

She sat back up with a heavy huff and tied her hair messily. "You hurt my feelings, Christopher."

He will never understand the deep anguish his little words caused her. _I love them more than I love you._ It may seem little but it hurts like a stab to her very fragile heart.

He will never reciprocate the hurt she had felt. Even though she knows she shouldn't take his words to heart, it still hurts nonetheless to hurt him say that he loves his imaginary friends more than he loves her. _His mother._ The woman who went through hell to have him. The woman who's doing anything in her limited amount of power to keep unwanted hands and eyes off of him. The woman who conceived him in the most grotesque way. The woman who loved him way before she felt him kick. The woman who chose not to bleed him away.

The woman who chose to love him instead.

He's her son and nobody else's.

 _He's hers and only hers._

"I'm sorry, Ma. I didn't know your feelings can be hurted."

That's what she thought of Bizzy too.

Getting off the couch with a groan, her joints ached. She kissed his little nose and he held up his little arms, she responded by tugging him against her hip, and apologised for being petty. She's the grownup here. She ought to be the bigger person.

But sometimes, she doesn't want to be the grownup. That's Derek's job, he's the mature and calm one. And she, she's the clingy and whiny child.

 _He's hers and only hers._

They hurried over to the _'kitchen'_ , making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches together before taking another pill and finding sweet relief the stygian darkness of her mind.

* * *

 ** _Six Years Ago_**

* * *

Addison screamed. A loud, high-pitched, blood curdling scream. Or at least that's what she thought she did as her mind replayed the events of last night over and over again.

It's been too long since she had any contact with the outside world, since she talked to someone other than herself, since she saw her husband, since she had good food and wine, since she held a ten blade, since she had freedom.

Freedom used to be luxury for her. Now, it's something she's most desperately craving for.

She shouldn't have let _him_ done that to her. She should've put up more of a fight. _What good would that do? He'd_ just beat her senseless.

 _It's not like he's done enough, right?_

She should've at least tried.

She wants to go back to a time where she was unharmed and untouched.

Laying on the far end of this stupidly tiny bed - battered and broken - she sobbed in pain and self pity. She wished she could just blend into the bland wall. She can only imagine how ugly and disgusting she must look. _Cordelia Van Tassel from med school was right. She is a whore._ With the amount of blood mixing with her tears, she knows she's beyond repair.

But then, she felt the bed sank and _he_ was now lying beside her. She flinched when _his_ hand caressed her cheek.

"Don't touch me." she snapped.

 _He_ laughed.

Anger ignited in her. Eating her chest from the inside out. If only _he_ knew how she felt, _he_ wouldn't be laughing.

"Are you just gonna lie in bed and cry all day?" _he_ asked, fully aware of the anguish that she's currently in.

 _What does he want with her?_

She bit down on her lip, controlling her sobs. Trying her best to muffle the sounds of her cries even when she wants nothing more than to scream and cry out loud. The insanity of _his_ question just further killed her. Convincing her that _he's_ totally mental, that _he's_ inhumane.

 _Can't he just leave her alone?_

No one's looking for her. She's fully convinced. It's been over a year and she's still here.

It's Christmas and it's cold again.

 _They've all forgotten about her._

Her husband hates her, so she can't really blame him.

Her parents...she doesn't really expect Bizzy and the Captain to do much.

Her elder brother - Archer - she doesn't know if he's looking for her or not, but he must because she would know that something so terribly wrong happened if he doesn't call her once a week, at the very least, because he's her family and she's all he's got.

If he isn't looking for her or at least harassing the police to exhaust every last penny they had in their budget to look for her, she will be torn into pieces. She'd rather die than know the truth.

She doesn't know what to think. _To stay positive or not? To have hope and fate or to just give up already?_

All she knows for certain is that she isn't the same _Addison_ anymore.

* * *

It was thirty minutes past seven in the evening when she woke up and she feels slightly better than she did yesterday and this morning. _Just slightly._ She's still nauseous - must be medicating on an empty stomach - and her head was still pounding a little.

 _Fatigue._

She's suffering from extreme exhaustion.

Dinner was fish sticks and rice. It's one of Christopher's favourites. She doesn't understand why, she hates fish sticks. The brand _he_ buys aren't even the good ones - it's the cheapest, she's sure of it - she've had better, but Christopher likes them second to tuna. Again, she doesn't get why.

They settled on a cooking show because there aren't really anything good to watch. She knows Christopher would prefer cartoons but it's prime time, there aren't any in the evening. She gave him the rest of her dinner because he didn't eat much today and besides, she feels guilty for being insular this morning.

"Ma, what is the cooking woman making?" he asked.

"Chef, sweetie." she said, "She's a Chef. And she's making mince pie. It's a Christmas pie with dried fruits and spices."

 _Oh, Christmas_...she used to love Christmas. They used to love Christmas. The silver tinsel, glittery, glistening red and green globes, shiny lights and the large Christmas tree sitting oh-so beautifully in the corner of their brownstone. It was their holiday and everyone who knows them knows that. Well, Derek used to love celebrating Christmas with her. _Used to._ He probably grew tired of her. The last few years before everything went south, he would spend December the twenty-fifth in the hospital while she, she'll celebrate the holiday by herself - and Mark will occasionally pop up out of the blue - with a bottle of Chateau Lafite.

His eyes brighten at the prosperity, "Can we make mince pie, Ma?"

 _When they're out of here, sure. Everyday._

But she shook her head. "Sorry. _He's_ going to get angry."

Mince pie has a lot of ingredients which costs quite the money and besides, it's not necessary for them to indulge in desserts.

He nodded. She's glad that he finally understood to not ask any further questions about _him_.

She smiled, ruffling his brown hair. He needs a bath and a change of clothes. But they don't have time now, it's almost nine and he's coming soon. Maybe in the morning then.

Christopher doesn't believe that the food they see on TV are real, even though she had insisted a thousand times that they are. He thinks that real food comes in a can. Like the kinds of food they eat.

A split second later, they're watching a fitness channel with two very shiny and bulky men working out various apparatus.

 _When was the last time she went to a gym?_

She don't know. _Medical school?_

After medical school, the hospital was her workout. It's all the workout she needs to keep fit anyway.

He changed the channels again.

"Christopher, would you just settle on one channel. You switching channels is giving me a headache." she said as she messaged her throbbing temples.

They're now at home makeover channel.

Groaning internally, she's once again reminded of her home in the Upper East Side and how excited she was to redecorate and furnish the interior the way she liked.

Avantgarde living room tiles. Antique Persian carpets. Black marble kitchen countertops. Polished chrome waterfall styled rain shower head with a porcelain freestanding iron Clawfoot tub. The stone look bathroom wall tiles.

A six month long renovation and she can't ever forget the night he carried her into their new house. It was just a three-story prewar - 1899 - limestone building with original glass and wooden doors encasing, but they are the ones who made it a home.

She loved that house, initially she, _they_ really did. She loved the smell of their leather sofa. Walking through the wooden door and into the vestibule, arm in arm with her husband. Kicking off her highest heels, then sauntering into their kitchen for her daily dose of red wine. Asking Derek if he'd want his scotch. But slowly, over the years - she's not too sure when the beginning of their end started - it became a house of horrors, a house of sorrow and loneliness. A home where it knows that she's craving for attention - Derek's attention. A home that's no longer warm and cozy. A home that has become cold and eerie. _It's all her fault anyway._ And she hates going home because she knows she'll be all alone. And after a while, she stopped calling Derek to ask - _no_ \- to beg him to come home, he knows very well how much she hates sleeping alone, because she knows what he's going to say, his words always hurt more than his absence.

"Did she like it brown better?" Christopher questioned and she was pulled away from her reverie.

"What?"

"The TV woman, she's crying now because her house is yellow." he pointed at the screen.

She listened intently on whatever the teary woman was saying now.

"Oh, no." she said, "She's so happy about her newly designed house that it's making her cry."

"That's weird. Is she happy-sad, like you get when there's lovely music on TV?"

Like when she hears their wedding song on the radio. Like when she hears Chopin or Tchaikovsky because it reminded her of Bizzy yelling at her to practice the piano.

"No, she's just stupid. Let's turn the TV off."

She's having her entire house decorated for free and they're confined to a 13"x10"! And she's crying! What for?

 _Life's fucking dandy, isn't it?_

"Five more minutes? Please?"

She shook her head.

-:-

 _Three short flashes. Three long flashes. Three short flashes._

She waited for a while, still pointing the flashlight up at the skylight before repeating the tiresome task, which has now become an ultimately useless process, all over again.

But she had to try again, even when all her efforts are futile. She had to not give up. _Montgomeries are persistent._ Maybe someone is out there, awake in the dead of the night, and will notice the flickering light - a cry for help.

 _Who knows?_

Maybe tonight is their night.

Maybe tonight, they will be rescued.

Maybe tonight, they will go home.

Maybe tonight, she'll get to sleep on her $3,899 Zenhaven natural latex memory foam mattress.

Maybe...just maybe.

 _Three short flashes. Three long flashes. Three short flashes._

SOS

 _Save Our Souls._

The continuous spaceless sequential distress signal is the International Morse code for maritime distress that was first adopted by the Germans, which she guess is not only for maritime related distress.

 _Right?_

She has the rights to use the code too since she, herself, really is in distress. A seven year long distress.

 _Three short flashes. Three long flashes. Three short flashes._

Her brother had taught her the distress code years and years ago . _Archer_. She sighed. It was then that she felt the longing ache in her chest as hot tears burned the back of her eyes. She hadn't allowed herself to think about her brother for the past seven years. _She just couldn't._ It hurts too much to think of him. Feeling herself begin to unravel, she gripped her arms, trying to hold herself together.

She misses her brother so much. So so much.

Oh, how she would give up everything in this world to hear her overprotective older brother yell at her again, yelling that she's making the biggest mistake of her life, yelling that he's only looking out for her, yelling that he's older, that he knows better, that he's wiser.

She wish to hear him again. But this time, it'll be different, she'll listen to him.

Her brother who had carried her home after literally flying off her pink bicycle because she had mistakenly pressed the break handles and tumbled down the little hill not a second later, scrapping her face in the process.

She was terrified to say the least and it wasn't because she was bleeding or that the skin on her face had peeled to shreds, she was frightened of how Bizzy was going to react.

 _"It's okay, Addie. Please stop crying. I'll tell Bizzy that it was my fault."_

 _"I wanna go home, Archie."_

He has always been the one who took care of her, his duty because they don't live in a conventional household. _He was her saviour._ And when a bunch of girls in the second grade were teasing her for her lisp caused by her protruding bucktooth - _admittedly, her young self looked so utterly grotesque_ \- he saved her. And when Chad Michael, a boy whom she had a crush on since the fifth grade, kiss-and-tell, informing the entire school of how much of a bad kisser she was, he saved her. And when her first ever boyfriend, the first boy to whom she has ever loved, Chuck Bass - the sole heir of the New York Palace Hotel - broke up with her because she wasn't ready to blossom just yet - she was only fifteen - he saved her.

She wonders how Archer's doing right now.

 _Is he married?_

Seven years can change a person.

She ought to know.

 _Three short flashes. Three long flashes. Three short flashes._

She remembers crawling into his bed late one night - twenty plus years ago - mortified of the clasping thunder.

 _"What're you reading?" she lisped and looked over at the book he had propped on his lap._

 _"Morse Code. Now, shush, Addie, if you want to sleep here with me tonight."_

She choked on her tears.

A myriad of scenes spun around her head of her brother, her brother who held her hand on her first day at the Dalton School, of her brother who screamed at Senna Montclair because she had said, quote and quote - _you're the ugliest person in the entire school, not just in the entire eighth grade_ \- of her brother who caught her smoking a cigarette - her first and last smoke - then sneaking a boy into her room at sixteen, of her brother who taught her how to drive the red Porsche the Captain had bought for her to silence what she had witnessed, of her brother who danced with her at her wedding, who told that she's making a mistake, who told her she could do better.

 _"He's not like us, Addie." he snarled at her in the dressing room as she got ready for her big day. That's what he calls a pre-wedding speech - criticising the choices she had made._

 _"Be happy for me, Archer. I love him." she was hurt nonetheless that her brother and her husband-to-be couldn't get along with one another._

 _She was so torn._

She loves her brother so much.

 _Three short flashes. Three long flashes. Three short flashes._

It has always been him and her against the world. Then, Derek came along and she had to push Archer to the side. She couldn't spend much time with her brother anymore. She was busy with medical school and Derek and he was busy with being a doctor and his passion for writing.

The last time she saw her brother, before this happened, was in Christmas. Three months before she was taken.

She wants to see him again.

Archer is out there and she's in here, living a nightmare.

So, she spoke the words she hid in her heart. "I wanna go home, Archie."

Her stomach tied in knots, and she hugged her knees tightly to her chest, shivering, biting her knuckles to hold back a scream.

"Ma?"

With Christopher's soft voice, she startled badly, nearly dropping the flashlight in her hand. Quickly, she turned away, rubbing her hands across her eyes.

But he can't see her. It's dark.

"Yes, baby." she said. Her voice shaking.

 _He's hers and only hers._

"All done?"

"Yea. Sorry I woke you." she crawled back into bed and let him snuggle into her side, wrapping his arm around her middle.

"That's ok."

Suddenly, tears were prickling at her eyes again and she can't seem to stop them anymore.

 _He's hers and only hers._

"Ma..." he started, her thumb rubbing against his soft cheek "Hmm?" she mumbled and tried to smile at him.

"Where are we when we're asleep?"

"Right here." she kissed his head, combing her fingers gently through his brown locks.

"But dreams...do we go in TV for dreaming?"

She whispered into his hair, "No. We're never anywhere but here."

 _Will she die in here?_

* * *

 _ **Thank you guys so much for reading. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. What do you think of Derek? Glad to finally hear from him. I love hearing what you guys think so be sure to leave a review. Pretty please. I'll try to update soon enough! Oh and there may or may not be more characters coming to life (more like words!) in the future chapters! So stay tuned.**_


	4. Chapter 4 - 2,574 days

**Chapter 4 - 2,574 days**

 _2,574 days. . ._

 _Does consciousness move on after death? Is it simply a product of the brain or the brain itself is a receiver of consciousness?_

If consciousness is not a product of the brain, it would mean that our physical bodies are not necessary for its continuation; that awareness can exist outside our bodies.

Questions, she still has a legion of them swarming in the swell of her mind. The frontal lobe, she thinks, she's not very sure. That's Derek's department, he's the brain connoisseur and she actually never really excelled at neuroanatomy. Besides her brain's not too refreshed on medicine these days and she has a good explanation for it but she's still very much lucid and perhaps sane as well - to a certain degree...for now that is.

She's not too sure how she's been doing it, really. She hasn't got the slightest clue because at the beginning, she was so certain that she was going to drive herself to insanity. It's the same mundane cycle over and over and over again.

 _Sleep. Survive. And pray that he doesn't come back._

Or.

 _Sleep. Survive. And when he does come back, pray he doesn't decide to beat the shit out of her._

But then she realised there was no point in psyching herself out because either way, _he_ is going to come back and she is never to come out. Because _he_ might not be back today or tomorrow but she certainly will stay here today, tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and for all the days to come.

She used to do the most in trying to escape - the first year only.

Scratching and clawing at the wooden floorings - yes, the concrete floor used to be wood before _he_ 'renovated' this fucking dump - until almost all of her nails ripped off. Literally. Her perfectly manicured nails are now ancient history. She hates her hands, her fingers, her nails; they're calloused, bony and blunt. _Ugly_. She hates looking at them.

She avoids every chance she's got. She's embarrassed.

Moving the table around so she could stand on it and fist at the skylight above with her bare hands and of course, the glass is shatterproof glass. And her efforts are almost laughable now because it was as if she thought she had the upper body strength to lift her five feet eight inches long self through that opening. Her long arms are of no use in carrying her weight.

 _Yea_. She'd like to ask someone - anyone for that matter - whether society will be ready to accept a misfit, an outcast like her, like them, or if she will be zealous and resilient enough for the world that's probably awaiting her because it has already been seven long years and that's a very long time to be be out of touch with humanity.

It's basic human needs - to belong, to communicate, to be apart of a community, to feel loved by others. It's Maslow's hierarchy of needs. And heaven knows none of the five basic dimensions in that damn pyramid are fulfilled.

Physiological needs are subpar.

Safety needs are nonexistent here.

She's always anxious. She bet her adrenal glands are self-destructing.

And the rest doesn't need to be heard as the two bare minimum aren't even fulfilled yet.

 _Never, most likely._

She was safe with Derek, actually. Then she wasn't too convinced that he'd be her knight in shining armour anymore. If she were to be chased by a rabid dog, he'd still be glued to his precious BlackBerry. She was convinced. Maybe a few years prior, she could've believed that he'd sweep her off her feet and save her. _Maybe_. It was his dreamy and blazing endeavour that caught her attention. _Sweet, charismatic and quiet._ Almost as if he was too shy to be at her presence and she loved that.

 _His gentleness._

But their relationship after marriage was like any other, she'd like to think. Comfortable with the occasional ups and downs. But the last year before this fucking mess, downs were more prevalent. The usual disputes, arguments and fights really just pushed them to polar ends. Each other's presence became a commodity and he had gotten so ruthless in being absent that she made herself to believe if she were to go missing - the irony - he wouldn't have even noticed.

She wonders if he had noticed. She hopes he had and at least called the cops.

 _Safe_. Yes, she was as safe as she can be and she threw all that away for a momentary high, for a garden of forbidden words.

Derek never hurt her - well, not physically. She wouldn't call prying her fingers off the banister, then gripping her wrist too tightly and shoving her out the front door in any way physical because she have had a taste of physical and what Derek did is nowhere near that.

 _What was that stupid little childhood saying?_

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.

 _Hah!_ That's a lie from the pit of the enemy, right there. Words do hurt.

Derek's words cut deeper than any scalpel ever could, leave wounds that hurt worse than any other pain and caused tears as vast as the Pacific Ocean.

It's all just petty nonsense and petty nonsense is what really hurts the most, especially when it's from the person you love the most, whom you'd never expect to be spitting mean and hurtful dredges to your face. He's her husband, and to her, that's really all the reason there needs to be.

 _You're not that special, Addison._

 _You yap like it's the end of the world. Just shut it already._

 _Is that all?_

 _I wish I never met you._

That's when he's at his wits end.

 _I-wish-I-never-met-you_ is what he would bash at her to make her shut up and he knew that and he used those words to his advantage on numerous occasions.

 _I-wish-I-never-met-you_ means the same as _I-wish-I-never-married-you._

 _I-wish-I-never-met-you_ hurt in ways he'd never understand.

He has his wish granted. He's pleased for sure.

The walls always dare to look somewhat different at night. _Arduous_. Not too drastic nor gruelling, just an unfamiliar, unwelcome slant. As if the daytime trees and wind and stones had gone to bed and sent slightly more ominous versions of themselves to take their place.

While the occasional hoots of a hidden owl was the only sound to permeate the silence, she quietly counted them as she hiked back and forth from either ends of the room, making sure the sink had been cleared of dishes, ground brushed, laundry been put away and books and toys shelved.

Proper, like _he_ wants this room to be.

Stopping on her tracks, she propped a tired hand on her hip - analysing - nodding in satisfaction that this dump is as prim and proper as it can be. And for someone who has never touched a broom and a dustpan as a child and only merely a handful of times as an adult, she thinks she has done a pretty superb job. Really. She'd give herself a pat on the back if she wasn't too exhausted to even raise an arm.

It's almost nine and _he'll_ be here any minute now.

She can't stand it when _he_ nags at her. It's irritating. She doesn't like it when people tell her what to do. _Never did_. Maybe that was how Derek felt when she nags at him. _Irritated_. Now, she can definitely relate.

But the only difference is that, _he_ nags at her to intentionally and very purposefully get under her skin, to demean her, to defile her self-esteem and dignity, while Derek, he, for sure, needed the nagging because it will take him an eternity to listen to her.

"Ma, are we still real?" Christopher's soft whisper echoed and she can see his curious blues through the slats of the cupboard.

She had startled badly, almost dropping the mug in hand. Sending thanks to nobody because she can't afford to break one more cup - needless to say _he_ would be furious with her.

"What do you mean?" she asked. Maybe it has something to do with what she tried to explain to him the other day, that there's a whole, wonderful and vastly coloured world out of these four walls.

Having tried explaining and almost giving up because Christopher didn't want to listen to any of her 'stupid' stories, as he called them, throwing a fit when she tried desperately to get him to believe her tales of reality, of the outside world and how his life isn't suppose to be just bound within this small space.

It was all too much for him to comprehend, she should've known. He's only five.

She had apologised and got him to calm down and he had told her to tell him the story again when he's six. _Six_. He just turned five a month ago and six is another year away. Stubborn, he's just like her. The thought of existing here for another year crumbled the temporary wall she had built and so, she spent the whole night crying.

Crying in fear and in frustration because her son can get annoying sometimes - don't get her wrong, she loves him to pieces but he's still a kid and kids are without a shadow of doubt, annoying - she hates it in here and she wants to go home. Crying because Christopher is only getting older and bigger and it will certainly be much harder for her to hide him away. She don't think he can fit into the cupboard for the next year anymore.

He's a Montgomery and Montgomeries are long. And that's ultimately why she needs to start coming up with a solid and feasible plan or plans for their great escape.

No more time consuming and tiresome chores of shinning SOS signs at skylight at night, she needs to think because there's no time to wilt. But most of all, she needs to stop being afraid of _him_.

"You said nobody knows about room."

 _Right_. They're not in any map or GPS system. They're unavailable to the world. Kept far away from humanity. Her eyes drifted through the walls. _Yea_. Nobody knows about this room and it's horror. To the outside world, it's probably just an innocent and harmless musty, old garden shed. They'd definitely be in for a surprise once they come to find out.

 _Derek, can you hear me?_

Another worthless attempt in trying to get the hell out of here - trying, she's always just trying. Trying never really hurts. She doesn't know why she does this - trying to communicate with Derek, because, essentially, she's just conversing with herself in her own head.

 _I'm really tired, Derek. Please take me home. I don't know if I can take this anymore._

Maybe she just likes the idea of talking to him.

"Outside has everything, you said. Like pets and dogs and baseball and computer and boats and islands and buildings and skyscrapers and elevators. I have to remember that they are all real for real. And people too, Ma. Doctors and nurses and police officers and sports people and teachers and actors. And all sorts. They're all in the outside and I'm not there. Me and you, Ma. We're the only ones not there. So, are we still real for real?"

Wiping away tears, she looked at Christopher through the slats that divided them and gave him a reassuring smile. She's more than ecstatic that he's finally on the first step to understand the outside world. Of course, there's a lot that he still needs to grasp but that's okay because she'll explain everything to him. Every last detail of this fucked up situation. She will tell him but just not right now because _he'll_ be here any second now. "Oh, baby, I wish I could explain it all to you right now, but it's too late. _He's_ coming and I want you asleep when _he's_ here. Ok?"

"Ok, Ma. Tomorrow?"

He's apparently too tired to protest, which she knows he would if he wasn't, and so she gave him a flying kiss.

"Now, close your eyes, sweetie. I'll tell you everything tomorrow. I promise." she said softly and she can see just enough as he nodded and curled to his side, hugging his blanket tighter.

 _He's_ late today. It's almost ten and she's sleep deprived. She had turned on the television to drown out the eerie silence because it's just too awfully quiet, scary even, and she sat on the couch with her legs fastened tightly to her chest, waiting and staring at the screen. It's a rerun of a show she can't, for the life of her, recall its name but it's about two brothers in a quest of hunting demons, ghosts, monsters, and other unrealistic creature stuffs.

 _Why?_

She doesn't know.

But it pegs the question of why anyone does anything.

 _For example, why did he kidnap her?_

She don't think she wants to know why.

 _Why did she cheat on Derek?_

She thinks she knows why.

 _Derek, please don't give up on me. Please, Derek. I'm here and alive. And I love you._

It's probably the sleep talking or the fact that she's basically desperate but she believes that they can still work them out.

He has to give her a chance to show him how sorry she is.

They're Addison and Derek after all. They don't quit.

Yawning, she was just about to crawl herself into bed when the infamous _beep beep_ sounded and immediately she snapped out of her sleep-deprived self, adrenaline taking its usually course.

After the door had slammed shut with a resounding thud, she turned around, giving _him_ a kiss - like instructed - then, lifted the groceries over to the kitchen. They're in dire need for these groceries because _he_ didn't come bearing them last week and it took everything in her to not shout and flip out at _him_.

 _Calm down, Addison. You have to relax. It's okay. You just have to lessen your portions from now on._

They already weren't eating enough.

She was just so angry but she kept that anger inside because she can't ever let it out.

"Where are the vitamins?" she questioned, taking a deep breath before glancing up at _him_. They need their nutritional supplements in the form of pills because God knows they're not getting any.

 _He's_ by the other side, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, watching her.

 _Why the hell is he always watching her?_

Pushing _himself_ off the tub, "I decided you guys don't need them anymore. Pharma's making billions of dollars out of shit. It's a giant rip-off." _he_ said.

"I'm the doctor here. I know what's best for us. You want us to get sick?"

"Oh, here we go again. Whine, whine, whine, yapping, yapping, yapping, that's all you fucking do all day."

"It's just that if we had a better diet, I wouldn't need to whine all fucking day." she said bitterly.

 _He_ narrowed _his_ eyes at her and for a brief moment, they just stare at each other, breathing heavily. _He's_ most likely contemplating on what _he's_ going to do with her now - beat her, slap her, throw her around like a ragged doll. And she, she's thinking back to when Derek and her were at this exact predicament. Not the whole imprisonment thing but the whole eyes locked at each other, nostrils flaring, barely a feet apart shebang.

Blinking, she stepped back and began pulling the contents out of the paper bag again and into appropriate cabinets with heavy contempt.

She has to stay far away from _him._ She has to get out of here. She can't keep breathing this stale oxygen. She detests _him_. She hates it here. She's vibrating in hatred.

Of course _he_ doesn't know this but she's cursing at _him_ and saying every foul word she knows in her head. She absolutely wishes she could scream them all at the top of her lungs.

"I bet we're cheaper to keep than a dog. We don't even need shoes." she spat, folding her shaking hands around her torso to hide its evident quivers.

She wonders if her shoes are still in their bedroom closet or perhaps Derek had donated all of them to Goodwill.

It's okay, she guess, what good will it do to wilt away in their closet.

"You have no idea about the world of today. I mean, where do you think the money's going to keep coming from?" _he_ sighed heavily, brushing _his_ hand through _his_ hair.

It's quiet now and she scattered forward, facing _him_. For a while, none of them said anything to each other. "What? What do you mean? Money in general or...?" she finally voiced.

"Six months." _His_ arms were folded. They're huge, she must add. Like they belonged to a giant. "Six months I've been laid off and have you had to worry your pretty little head?"

 _And whose fault is that?_

 _What does he want from her?_

 _Sympathy? Understanding?_

There's no way in hell she's ever going to grant _him_ that because she was perfect before this and she never gave _him_ this super bright idea. She's more than furious with _him_ now for putting them in this position.

"What happened?"

For a second, she contemplated giving _him_ the PIN to her bank accounts. Maybe the bank would call Derek or the cops for 'suspicious activity' and the cops could do their cop thing and they'll find them and get them out of here.

 _He's not that stupid, Addison._

 _He's_ been keeping her locked up for seven years and there must be a fundamental reason that _he_ could evade from the police and just make it seem like she had disappeared without a trace.

 _He's a fucking psychopath._

"Like it matters."

"Are you looking for another job?"

Silence.

For a moment longer than she should, she stared into _his_ soulless eyes, thinking of all the nasty things _he's_ done to her. Swallowing hard, she quickly turned away and trained her eyes over the kitchen table, lining the rest of the goods in a neat line.

She likes that, neat.

 _How did she get into this quagmire?_

Since the day she was born, she was told that she'd never have to worry about finances and money and anything related to expenses because they're very much well off and she has a trust fund. All she had to do is complete her education and while she's at that, get good grades too.

And she did. She did everything right and as she was told. Everything was given to her on a silver platter. But now, here she is, thirty-five years later, worrying about how they're going to survive without any means of income.

"Are you in debt?" she asked, "How are you going to-"

 _-Support us?_

"Shut your mouth." _he_ spat and _his_ tone was a warning one, that she had chose to ignore in countless occasions. But maybe she shouldn't because it just always ends badly for her.

"I need to know this! I need to know-"

She didn't see it coming but she definitely felt the hot sting vibrating through the muscles of her cheek, saw stars exploding right before her, the thunder clasp of skin against skin and the crackles of her neck echoed loudly with her hair wiping violently across her face.

A tonne of bricks had connected with her cheek - that's going to bruise badly - but she didn't stumble at all, still glued and grounded and she's grateful for that.

Nausea threatened her when a soft cry waved from the cupboard. It's Christopher and he's clearly terribly terrified. He must have woken up by their loud shrieks. And it's breaking her heart because he wants his mother - needs her right now and she can't hold him tight and reassure him back to sleep because _he's_ here.

"Hey there, buddy." _he_ took a step, then another, then another before lightly knocking on the slats.

Her stomach lurched harshly.

"He's asleep." she made herself say and dragged her feet closer.

Reluctantly, her hand settled on _his_ broad shoulder and for a second, she was certain she's going to pass out because just like that she can switch back to being awfully afraid. "Just leave him. Come, let's go to bed."

"She keep you in there all day as well as all night?"

 _Remember what I told you, Christopher? Do not say a word when he's here. Even when he's talking to you._

Silently and in her mind, she's begging Christopher.

"Doesn't seem right to me."

She think she's going to...

 _He_ turned to her and she can hear the mock in his tone and the thumping of her heart that's now loud in her ears. "I figure there must be something wrong. You've never let me get a good look since the day he was born. Poor little freak's got two heads or something?"

Her back is pressed against the slats now and there's a dull ache in her head and neck from the earlier slap. "He's just shy."

"He's got no reason to be shy of me." _he_ said, sounding almost kind, "Never laid a hand on him. Right, Christopher?"

Twining her arm with _his_ , she lightly pulled _him_ towards the direction of the _bedroom_. "Let's just go to bed."

Her voice sounds embarrassingly strange. The desperation is there.

"I know what you need, missy." _he_ laughed, "Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?"

Her mother was all about manners and class.

Relief made her stomach queasy and knees liquid and _he_ slammed her onto the bed, pinning her with _his_ weight.

The lamp goes out, _he's_ harsher tonight.

* * *

 **Seven Years Ago**

* * *

The sun is setting. _Soft_. Vibrant hues of orange-red is merging with the sky. Slowly descending, dissolving into a mauve dust.

It's fading away.

It's beautiful.

It's rare.

Because they live in Manhattan and skyscrapers aren't ideal for watching sunsets but today must be a sign.

A bespoke made just for her. Telling her that today will be different. _Special_. Maybe - _just_ _maybe_ \- Derek will keep his end of his word, that they will go out for dinner. As planned. Because she kept hers and switched shifts with Dr. Geller. She's doing whatever it may be to save their impending fall of a marriage.

She's trying. She shamelessly is. But nothing she's doing seem to be working.

She even called Carolyn, Derek's mother of all people, to ask how to make Belgian waffles, Chicken Pot Pie, and if she could get her recipes for his favourite foods because she doesn't just want to get any recipe off the internet since she's doing her best here.

"Is everything alright with you and Derek, dear?"

Her concern was a front. She'd love to see them fail.

She's trying. She's saving them. Because history is repeating itself and just like Bizzy, she'd forgotten how to wear her mask and she can't distract Derek with sex anymore since that doesn't seem to be fixing anything. _Not anymore_. So, she opt for Plan B. _Food_. A way to anyone's heart is through a good meal.

She hates cooking and she hardly knows how to work a stove. But she's determined to make him notice her again.

She's scared because Plan B is all she has left. After that - where they are headed to - is anyone's guess.

Her eyes are steady to the window, face aglow with the last orange rays before twilight beckons the stars. Her lips bear the semblance of a smile, just enough to show that she is enjoying this - the warmth, the _freedom_ and just the sun, itself, embracing her.

 _Derek will be coming home tonight._

She's probably reading too much into nothing. But, really, hope is all she has.

It's just after seven and the sun has now traded places with the moon. It's just as beautiful.

She's all dressed and in red. It's all for him because Derek seems fond of her in red. She don't understand why because, to her, there's just too much red going on. Red hair, red dress, red lips, she could go for red heels too but she's not there yet - she's not yet crazy.

Bloody Mary, that's what she looks like. _Oh!_ Or maybe a bloody tampon. A walking, living, breathing, barely functioning version. But it's okay because Derek loves her in red.

Because only then he'll notice her.

More time flew by and it's almost eight now. She's waiting. Waiting, patiently or perhaps impatiently for her husband's presence to emerge through the front door and peeling at the bed of her nails.

She won't nag. She won't shout. She will not get mad.

She'll get in the car and forget.

Like she always does.

 _Kind of._

But he could have at least called or texted or ask one of the interns to do that for him.

Sitting on Derek's vintage Chesterfield leather button armchair, his prized possession - a must-have as he stated on their last trip to Europe - she poured herself another tumbler of Hendrick's - it's the best of best in terms of gin if anyone is asking - and dig into her purse for her phone.

 _Nothing._

She'll wait. And she is because it's now eight-forty. She've been sitting here for almost an hour.

Impatience turned to annoyance. Her hands clenched the blanket beneath tightly around her and her cold toes curled under her detectably.

 _He's not coming._

She knew it.

So much for hoping. So much for signs. So much for trying.

She's going to drink herself to sleep now. Until she passes out. Until she's stupid drunk. Until she can't remember why she's even crying in the first place.

But that never happened because the door bell rang.

 _Derek!_

All hurt is forgotten because he's here now.

She didn't even stop to think why he's ringing the doorbell and not just opening the door with his keys.

Power walking - more like running to the door, she flung it open with a smile that soon turned upside down.

" _Ouch_."

It's just Mark. Her friend. _Their_ friend.

It makes more sense if Mark lives here because he have been here, in the house she shares with her husband more nights than she could count. Crashing on the couch or in the guest bedroom, which basically is his now, having dinner with her, or watching a movie more two.

"Expecting someone?"

Derek lives here but then again, he doesn't. His name is in the property but then again, he doesn't really live here.

"Derek." she shrugged and beckoned him inside.

"Well..." he frowned, skimming up and down her length, which looks as though he's smiling at her sadly.

 _Great! Now he's pitying her._

Just what she needed. _Pity._

"He's a fool because you look...nice. Well, really nice actually."

A compliment out of pity, that's just what she needs tonight. But really, she's clinging onto his words like it's the holy scripture.

"Thanks, Mark." she forced her lips to smile, "Make yourself at home. I'm just going get out of this ridiculous dress."

It's really not that ridiculous. Itchy, yes. Ridiculous, definitely not.

It's short, but not so that she'd be mistaken for a working girl.

"Hey, Red." he called out, "You're beautiful and your husband's a mad man for not noticing...anymore."

And he smiled, that stupid smirk that would make any lady blush.

It turns out, she's no different.

She's ridiculous because here she is, stumbling down the staircase after voiding her face of makeup and pulling on loose and worn out sweats, after spending a lot more time than she should in the bathroom, wallowing in self-pity.

She's the one who's ridiculous since she's watching baseball with her husband's best friend. And she doesn't even like baseball. She doesn't understand it. She doesn't understand what happened to them.

She thinks she's going to cry.

"Addison."

She glanced at him and he looked worriedly at her. A question lingered on his brows.

"You're crying."

Apparently, she have been and she swiped the clear stains from her cheeks.

"No, don't." she waved him away when he scoot closer, "It's okay. I, I just-"

But he didn't listen - it's no surprise that all of the men in her life doesn't listen to her - and is barely an inch away now, taking her wrist and gently drawing circles with his thumb.

He's looking at her while his other hand massaged her thigh.

 _Why is he looking at her like that?_

"What are you doing?" she asked firmly, looking into his eyes. Quick and in one breath. She can already feel the heat he's radiating and she swallowed hard, embarrassingly.

Her mind is panicking. But her body is clearly responding to whatever he's doing to her.

"Sorry." he pulled his hands away and she almost yelped, "No," before grabbing his hand back and placing it on her thigh again. Only inching higher this time.

 _"I like it."_

* * *

She isn't too sure what woke her tonight but something definitely did - a sound, a creak, a breath, that embarrassing memory that started all this, it could be anything really. Intuition probably. _Most definitely_. And when she pushed herself off the cold wall that she was basically pressed into, and when she only felt an empty space beside her, her eyes shot open to reveal the dread she've been awaiting.

 _He's_ crouching low right in front of the cupboard, and _his_ hands were on the edges of the opened door, whispering and muttering something to her son.

Time slowed down - _no_ \- perhaps time stopped, halted in it's tracks while fear quickly trembled down her spine. She can't hear what _he's_ saying and that's only because she can't hear anything above the blood rushing in her ears.

But just as quickly, time resumed to it's normal pace.

"Get away from him!" she pounced out of bed like a pouncing Siberian tiger. _Quick_. All limbs flying around from here to there and she shoved _him_ away.

"Get away from him!"

 _He_ looked just as surprised as she was at her new found courage.

Hard and with every last ounce of energy she's got, she strike at _his_ face, actually landing a blow to _his_ jaw.

"Get away from him!" she kept screeching over and over again. "You said you wouldn't!"

 _Of course, he couldn't be trusted._

Ready for the next hit, _he_ caught her wrist in lightning speed before she could make any real contact and slammed her to a nearby wall. Knocking wind out of her chest.

"You said you wouldn't!"

"Shut up!" _his_ thick hand mangled in her hair, twisted around _his_ wrist, and forcibly yanked her head back. She gasped desperately at the pain ripping through her scalp.

 _DEREK!_

Clumps of brittle hair are being pulled out, she can feel it.

 _She doesn't care._

"I trusted you! You promised! You said you wouldn't!"

 _He's_ screaming at her to fucking shut up and she's screaming at him because _he_ had promised her _he'd_ leave Christopher alone.

She've given herself to _him_ \- she kept her end of their deal.

"I've been too generous with, missy. I let you run this place like it's yours. I shoulda known you'd be exploiting a hardworking fella like me. You don't get to pay no bills. You don't gotta work. And all I ask is for you to shut the fuck up."

Both of _his_ hands are on her throat now and she cried out loudly, choking, fearful, when she can't feel the cold cement on her soles anymore.

"Stop that noise."

Scratching and clawing and pulling at _his_ arm, she struggled to get a breath in, struggled to touch the ground with her feet, struggled to not slip into a deep slumber. "Stop...I can't breathe...Please..." she choked.

 _DEREK! DEREK!_

Letting go of the hold on her neck, "You're a nut case, you know that?" _he_ roughly poked a finger to her temple and she breathed desperately. Choking on air as she tried to hog most of it into her feeble lungs.

It doesn't seem to be enough.

"I can be quiet." she whispered painfully. "You know how quiet I can be so long as you leave him alone. It's all I've ever asked."

"You ask for shit every time I open the door."

Hacking, "It's all for Christopher." she's still forcing air into her lungs, rubbing the redden skin on her neck.

"Yeah, well, don't forget where you got him."

He doesn't stay.

 _Beep beep._

And she disappeared under the covers. Possibly forever, if she had life her way.

* * *

Unease. Unsettling. Unjustified.

It's an unprecedented and uncomfortable accord that he's feeling. _Unapt_. It's a pulling of the chest - heavy and seizing his every air supply. It's a stomach churning ache somewhere in his body - he can't exactly pinpoint where. _Probably his heart._ It's contagious, at least he'd like to believe it is. And that is the reason why he's here, in his office, in the middle of the night, going through all of his patient's negatives - oh, how Addison would love to mock him for using that word - for the third time, fourth time, fifth, sixth - he doesn't know because ultimately, he had lost count hours and hours ago.

He doesn't care because he's not actually studying the tedious files intently. He can't get himself to concentrate even if he really wanted to.

He's preoccupied and he feels awful for treating Meredith with the same neglect that he did with his wife. But it just doesn't feel right to lay down next to her and be pensive of a whole other woman.

This time, the only difference is the _what_ he's preoccupied with.

For Addison, it was his career, his job, his goals and ambitions. And with Meredith, it's Addison that's distracting him.

But, here he is, Head of Neurosurgery - goals achieved. _Well, halfway there since he'd very much like to be Chief of Surgery_. And he's still where all the problems began.

Maybe it was all his fault all along.

He doesn't want to loose Meredith too.

He has lost enough.

A completely different woman and he misses her. Sometimes, he'd find himself thinking about her, remembering her bright smile and red hair. He doesn't ever want to forget.

He's afraid of that - forgetting. Losing memory of how she sounds, of her gentle touch and the long fingers that would tease him mercilessly, of her playful laugh and the snort that she emits when she does.

She hates it but he thinks it's cute.

He wants to tell her that he has forgiven her.

 _He's not mad._

"I can't be angry with you anymore, Addie." Looking out the small window, he can see a star twinkle amongst the others. _That's_ _Addison_. She's bright and shiny. Always wanting to standout. Always the one with her arm raised in class. Always craving for approval. Always wanting to be noticed.

He wishes she doesn't believe that he still is mad.

He was.

 _Of course, he was._ He had caught her in bed with Mark.

Mark of all people.

Now, seven years later, it's a pointless anger because it took her to _disappear without a trace_ \- he prefers that term instead of what everyone else is using, _dead_ , he'll only believe that she is in fact dead when there's a body, her body to corroborate that theory - for him to realise that he doesn't want to lose her, that he actually needs her in this world.

He wants to tell her that he has forgiven her because he knows now; what she did with Mark was out of desperation. It wasn't the reason for the catalyst of their fail marriage. It may very well be the cherry on top but it wasn't the cause.

He's equally to responsible.

Wherever she is, he wants her to know that they're okay. Wherever she may be.

But really, it's been seven years with no traces or leads or sightings, statistics says it's unlikely.

 _She's dead._

He's a man who has been true to statistics all his life, he just hopes statistics is very wrong this time around.

"I'm really sorry, Addison." he said softly, taking his reading glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose, rubbing tears away.

It's all really unfair for Meredith. He feels disgusting, like he's cheating on her. And essentially, he kind of is, with a woman that doesn't exist anymore. She doesn't know any of this. It's his secret.

She didn't need to know and he needed a fresh start.

But he loves her too.

He loves Meredith.

He needs a complicated distraction because this feeling that he's currently feeling is leaving him breathless.

"Niklaus Mikaelson, 36, presented with a rare spinal subependymoma manifesting as progressive weakness of his right lower extremity over an 8-month period. MRI showed diffuse enlargement of the spinal cord from T-2 to T-7. A laparotomy is needed to remove the tumor." he said.

Subependymomas are surgically curable tumors, so if the tumor is well demarcated, the mass can be totally removed.

He can't do this. Grunting, he pulled at his hair. It's Addison's favourite part of him. His hair.

 _Goodness! Addison is everywhere today._ _Why?_

He needs to know.

Even his patient's files aren't fulfilling his need of a distraction.

 _What's wrong with him tonight?_

He felt fine all day.

 _What's this feeling?_

He's got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach and so he grabbed his phone and dialled a number he never thought he'd have to dial ever again.

After a few rings, the uncannily familiar voice echoed, "Detective Beckett."

It's been years since he left New York and he's not certain if she still remembers him.

"Detective Beckett, umm, this is Dr. Shepherd. Derek, I mean. I don't know if you still-"

"Yes, I remember." she interrupted, "What can I do for you, doctor?"

He don't know. He don't even know what he's hoping for with this phone call.

"I was wondering if you got any more leads on my wife's disappearance."

Silence.

 _Disappearance_. He's using that word loosely because truly, it can mean anything.

He'd rather that she be missing than dead because a world without Addison is a world he wouldn't want to be in.

"Your wife's case has been handed over to the Cold Case Unit ... It's been seven years, Dr. Shepherd."

She's saying that like it should mean something. _Seven years_. They're not mutually exclusive. _Seven years._ That doesn't mean she's dead.

The cops have already given up in her.

He's trying - he have tried to look for her. He had hired a private investigator. He even assisted on field searches to look for her body. He even worked with Mark to find her.

"... I'm so sorry, Dr. Shepherd. But the likelihood of-"

He knows.

He doesn't want to hear it all over again and so, he hang up.

* * *

I open my eyes and I'm still in cupboard. Ma didn't come get me. I think maybe she is still sleeping. I hear all yesterday night. All loud banging and roaring and Ma sounded so weird. Crying. _He_ was hurting Ma and I didn't help because Ma always says to never go out of cupboard when _he_ is in room, even if _he_ is hitting her. But I was so scared also. I don't even think I can help.

Yeah, _he_ is called _he_. Sometimes, _him_ or _his_. I don't know _his_ name. Ma never told me. She says it's not important, but I think she don't even know what _he_ is called.

Ma should ask _him_ , so we can call _him his_ name, like Ma calls me Christopher because that is my name and I call Ma Ma because Ma is her name. _He, him, his_ is confusing sometimes.

I really wonder what _his_ name is. Maybe _he_ has no name, that's why. Maybe _he_ is not real for real. Maybe it's because _he's_ a ghost, like Casper the Friendly Ghost. But _he_ is not friendly, so I don't know.

Ma hates _him_. She's scared of _him_ , I think. She doesn't like talking about _him_ and she always shouts at me when I do.

 _Stop it, Christopher!_

 _I don't like talking about him!_

 _Would you just drop it already!_

When Ma shouts, she is scary and sometimes, I hide and sometimes, I cry because Ma can get real mean when she's angry. But I always forgive Ma because she is my Ma.

Today is one of those days when Ma won't wake up properly. She's here but not really. She stays in bed with the pillow on her head. I'm scared maybe she is ... So, I hurry to climb up onto bed and go up really close and listen till I hear her breathe. I whisper really softly. "Ma, are you wake?"

I'm just one inch away, my hair touched Ma's nose and Ma moved a little further to wall and made a soft sound.

I now can see red and purple dirty on her neck and wrist and cheek. I rub the one on her neck and Ma went jumping a little, hissing like an angry snake.

"Christopher...don't -" her voice is higher now. Maybe she is crying.

"Sorry." I kiss Ma like she does when I am sad. _Three kisses_. Forehead, nose and lips. But I can't because pillow is covering Ma's face, so I just kiss Ma's hair softly three times.

Ma's hair is red and mine is not. I don't know why. If I come from Ma, then why my hair is not red. Mine is brown.

But my eyes are like Ma's.

Jumping down of bed is fun. I pretend I am Superman and soaring through the clouds. _Whoosh!_ Ma doesn't want me jumping because I might break a something in room or my bone. _Ouch!_ But Ma is in bed now. She can't say anything.

I eat my cereals slowly, one square at a time, so I won't get hungry fast. Cereals, I don't really like. Just a bit. I like eggs and toast but I don't know how the stove works. Ma says to never touch the stove because it can burn me.

It burn Ma once. _Bad stove!_ It made her skin all red with bubbles that had water in them and her skin was peeling. It was disgusting.

I stand on my chair to wash the bowl and spoon. It's very quiet when I switch off the water.

I think he put the marks on Ma yesterday night.

Maybe he squished her neck.

I don't have a bath today, I just get dressed. Ma and I bath together so we can save water.

There's hours and hours, hundreds of them. And I don't know what to do now. I can't do math because Ma is not here. Ma likes math. And I like it too.

Maybe I should do some jogging. From this wall to that wall. I run and I pretend Ma is next to me. I tell Ma she is so slow. _Slowpoke!_ Ma doesn't answer because she is not really next to me. Just pretend.

Ma is actually really really fast. Her legs are so long and I can never catch up to her. Sometimes I can but I know she is only letting me beat her.

I'm really tired now and I try to breathe. Ma gets up to pee, no talking with her face all blank and her eyes all red. I put a glass of water and crackers beside bed but she just gets back under blanket with her orange painkiller bottle.

I hate when Ma's like this. It makes me so sad. But I like that I get to watch TV all day because Ma normally doesn't like that. I put it on really quiet at first and make it a bit louder at a time. Too much TV might turn me stupid like _him_ or into a zombie but Ma's like a zombie today and she's not even watching TV.

There's Bob the Builder and Spongebob Squarepants, Ma's favourite. Maybe I should tell her it's on. Maybe she will get out of bed.

No. I don't think Ma would want to today.

Barney and Friends do hugs and Barney is now telling me to hug my friends but Barney don't know I can't today. Ma is not feeling well.

 _How can TV pictures be of real things?_

Ma says they are all real for real. I don't understand how.

I think about them all floating around in the outside. You know, Ma said there are people and things outside of this walls and I don't understand that. Ma said the bald moustache doctor who gives advice to people is real for real. But not SpongeBob or Bob the Builder because they are only drawings, coming to life for TV.

 _It's so confusing._

The cars and the police and the airplane and all the hes and shes and the doctors and their patients, all are floating past skylight. There are skyscrapers as well and cows and ships and trucks, it's all crammed out there. I counted all the stuff that might crash into room. _Oh my god!_ It's all so scary.

I go really close to Ma again and whisper wake up but she doesn't.

Ma is still breathing. And that's good.

Ma will be back tomorrow, I tell myself.

* * *

Stepping into the clean, sterile operating room, he greeted the doctors and personnel with a simple good evening ( _it's not a good evening because the dread in the pit of his stomach is still very much present._ ) while the surgical technician fitted him into latex gloves and tied the light blue surgical gown around his waist. He thanked them for their assistance because he's not the Great God of Neurosurgery, he's just an ordinary human being. It's the polite thing to do. And besides, the surgical technicians are always under appreciated.

It's just another standard, straightforward and routine aneurysm clipping to prevent the swelling from rupturing.

 _Textbook surgery._

It's something he's done a billion times before - nothing new or interesting.

He'd like to think he could do this procedure with his eyes close.

 _Cut. Suture. And close._

No messy emotions in between.

He'd really like to distance himself from this irk that's been eating away at him since last night. He's been ignoring it all day but she's still there, she or something that's making him think of Addison is here, poking relentlessly at him to notice her.

 _Cut. Suture. And close._

Ok, not so literal

It's more like; cut, drill, saw, cut, clip, suture and then, close.

It's basically more or less just like that.

Everyone else is already ready. _Scrubbed. Sterile. Sanitised._ He can feel all of their knowing gaze on him, more than a dozen pair of eyes were waiting, waiting for him to say those words. It's luck, practice, fortune. Maybe magic, even. Because every surgeon has that one thing that they do right before their first cut and his is his words of wisdom.

"On your count, Dr. Shepherd."

 _It's a beautiful day to save lives._

They're all waiting for that.

But today is not a beautiful day.

"Ten blade." he held out his latex covered hand and he can almost feel the atmosphere shift. _Almost_. The scrub technician was hesitant at first but she handed him the scalpel.

It's just mindless superstitions anyway. It's not like his patient's life solely rests on the hands of those words.

It's simply just a meaningless quote.

Looking up at the gallery, it's Meredith that he sees and she nodded at him with a thin smile. Meredith - she's different, very different than Addison in someways.

 _Humble. Patient. Young._

Different but also similar one way or another.

He doesn't know what he's rambling about in his head. He isn't too sure of anything today and so he made the first incision, behind the hairline.

 _Her outfits are impeccable._

No - were.

Her outfits _were_ impeccable. Impeccable, pretentious, and classy, just like her.

Sweet like vanilla or sometimes even like flowers. Chanel No. 5, he absolutely misses that scent. He even went as far as gifting Meredith with that bottle for Christmas just to smell it again. She liked it, she said she really did. But he never smelt that floral-citrus scent on her. And when he nonchalantly asked her about it, she apologised for not wearing it because that scent wasn't her liking.

He should've known that not everyone shares the same taste.

It's a memory that he's reminiscing right now.

Blue. Big smiles - grinning from ear to ear. Perfect white shiny enamels. Arm in arm in arm. All three of them.

 _Well, technically the four of them._

The fourth being Mark's girlfriend-of-the-month/date to their Graduation Dinner. She was practically glued to him the entire night and no matter how hard they all tried to unglue her off of him, she melded back to him even stronger.

Addison thought she was annoying since she was a talker. She wasn't like them - doctors. She was a ... he doesn't even know and he don't think he ever even knew what she does for a living. And he hasn't got the slightest idea what her name was because he gave up knowing the names of Mark's conquests a long time ago.

Well, he knows one, remembers her name like it's half of who he is. He knows one because she never was suppose to be one of his conquests.

Needless to say, they didn't even get to take a decent picture of just the three of them without Mark's date inserting herself, in the literal sense, into every picture.

 _A psycho._ Mark has always had a taste for the crazies.

The skin and muscles are now lifted off the bone and folded back, allowing him to make four burr holes in the skull with a drill to expose the brain and meninges.

She wore midnight blue that night at the dinner. Low-cut with a slit along the side that made her legs look even longer. He can still remember the itchy feel of the rough sequins that was embedded in the dress as it scrapped at his palms, overlapping one tiny sequin over the other that really looked more like fish scales than anything else. But she looked beautiful in midnight blue, in that dress that scintillated their reflection across the room.

It was a night of laughter. A night void of pressure and stress. A night to celebrate their success and the fact that they had survived. A night to commemorate their four years of continuous studying, staring at tongue twisters, memorising hair-jarring words. It was one night out of a lifetime of forever sleepless nights.

She again wore midnight blue at Savvy's wedding. A bridesmaid, of course. She was only his girlfriend, then. He quickly realised that ruby red wasn't his only favourite colour on her. And something within him, in that joyous day for their dearest friends, came to the conclusion that he'd love to see her in white too.

He had shared that very conclusion with Mark that day. He's now nauseous all over again.

And she looked even better in white.

 _Phenomenal, actually._

It's a smooth entry to the sylvian fissure.

See, he doesn't need fallacies to do his job right. _He's a good surgeon._ He has this all under control.

So, when he brushed past her at the doors that day on her last surgery, he never ever thought it'd be her last, covered in midnight blue scrubs, there was nothing, he realised and that shocked him. No spark, the flame doused, the power cut and she parted her lips and he can see her forming the beginnings of a _sorry_ because she always was that; sorry, even when it's all his fault. Only this time, she's not sorry, and neither is he.

He's sure, even then, he was in total oblivion as to what they were in cahoots about.

 _Were they even arguing that day? Or perhaps just mad at each other because that has become the norm._

He remembered that they made plans to go out to dinner. Obviously that night ended so so terribly wrong for the both of them.

He had fallen asleep at an on-call room, telling himself that he'll just rest his eyes for half an hour. But half an hour turned to two and he rushed home in a frenzy because he knows Addison and she must be livid and was probably halfway to Canada by now.

What went down that night is history. And he never saw her again.

 _Why were they always arguing?_

He's smiling as he added a temporary clip on the A2 ACA distal and he doesn't even know why because the memory he's recalling isn't even a pleasant one.

Luckily the surgical mask is masking what can only look as though he's going insane.

Now, with the aneurysm neck exposed, he placed another clip.

Suddenly it's become crucial to recall what her last surgery was and he's now wrecking his brain to retrieve that knowledge.

 _A birth or five perhaps? C-sections? Hysterectomy? Ligation?_

They've always looked for each other's names on the boards.

 _A. Shepherd_

 _D. Shepherd_

And he found himself looking for her name even after.

He vaguely recalls her telling him that she was picked to assist on a TTTS case. It surely would've been a great opportunity for her. She've always talked about wanting to specialise in maternal and fetal medicine.

She would've been on the top. She would've been the best of the best. She would've surpassed all expectations.

It's sad because she just ran out of time.

A continuous screeching noise resonated somewhere and he just can't seem to stop it.

He's still calm. Maybe even too calm, to be honest. But in a pivotal situation like this - his patient coding on his table - collectivity is key.

He's trying, he really is trying to stop the blood from gushing everywhere but really, it's pointless now as the nurse read him the BP.

He had ruptured the aneurysm during the remodelling.

 _8:56pm_

Time of Death.

Now it seems like a great idea to have said those words.

 _It's a beautiful day to save lives._

 _Why couldn't he have said it?_

 _What's the harm?_

It's simple. Nine syllables. Seven words.

He's walking away like he does best, defeated. It's actually the best way to deal with difficulties. Like he did when he walked in on his wife and best friend, in the throes.

He opened the door to their bedroom and saw what he wish he hadn't, then walked away.

 _But really, what could he have done?_

They were both naked and he couldn't stand to look at Addison.

He squinted into bright lights at the pit and then stopped, his chest tightening when he saw uniformed officers and two in suits looking his way.

They're not looking at him but at his direction.

He's taken back to New York again, seven years younger.

Scrubbing in and in the middle of cleaning subungual areas with a nail file, his Chief and two detectives in suits barged in unannounced.

In all truths, he was actually waiting for that to happen because it's always the spouse that's the first suspect. _Always_. And he knew that.

And somehow, the cops just really wanted him to be it, the man who obliterated his wife's existence off the face of this earth. And he can't really blame them for concluding that because he had motive to want his wife dead and he was the last person who had seen her.

"I'm sorry, Derek. I tried." Chief had apologised sincerely.

He didn't utter a word when they told him to put his hands behind his back or even when he was roughly pushed out of the scrub room with handcuffs that were very purposefully fastened too tight.

"Derek Shepherd, you're under arrest for the murder of Dr. Addison Shepherd. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney ..."

* * *

I read the five books all by myself and only bits of The Tale of Peter Rabbit, I'll wait for Ma to read it to me. Mostly, I just sit and tell myself that Ma will be back tomorrow.

I think of drawing but I don't feel like it now. Maybe I can draw Ma in hospital with her friend, Addison. But I don't even know what Addison look like or her hair colour. I'll have to ask Ma tomorrow.

So many questions are in my head, I don't think I can remember all.

I want to wake Ma up and ask about outside with the actual humans and the many things all zooming around.

I wasn't believing her before and Ma got mad because I wasn't listening and wouldn't let her talk.

 _Ma, I believe you now. Please wake up._

I want to shake Ma but I'm scared Ma might be angry if I do that. Or maybe she will not switch on at all even if I shake her because he squashed her neck so hard. I go up very close again. Ma's arm is covering her eyes. The marks are all red and purple and bright. It look so scary and painful.

I think I can see _his_ big fingers on Ma's neck.

I hate _him_ too.

I'm going to kick _him_ till I break _his_ butt. I'm going to help Ma when _he_ comes back later. I'll kick _him_ and kick _him_ until I break _him_ , like _he_ broke Ma. I'll zap stupid door open with TV remote and whiz into outside and get everything at the real stores and bring it back to Ma.

I cry a bit but with no sound.

I watch a show of weather and one of police detectives finding the bad guy so they can bring him to jail for killing the good guy.

 _So, are policemen real for real?_

 _Are they floating outside?_

I nibble my fingers, Ma can't tell me about germs.

Germs can make you dead but I'm not, so I guess Ma is lying.

I wonder how much of my brain is gooey now and how much is still ok.

 _Have I turned to zombie already?_

Ma's never like this for more than one day. I don't know what I will do if I wake up tomorrow and she's still like this.

 _What if she's sad like this again tomorrow?_

Then, I'm hungry again. I have a banana even though it's a bit green. Ma haven't eaten all day. Her water and crackers are still beside bed. I worry about Ma because she's always not hungry. She says she's not hungry but I know she is because I can hear her tummy.

I'm always hungry and she's always giving me her food to eat. I tell her no but she tells me not to waste food. Maybe she doesn't like the food she cooks but they're always so yummy.

Ma should eat so she can be healthy and strong like me. But I don't know why she's not eating.

Sometimes I like poking the bones on her shoulders because it's always sticking out.

 _Go back inside, bones. You're hurting Ma._

When Ma stands, she's so long. I don't think I can ever be as long as her.

Dora is in TV now. She's finding her way to the castle. Yea, she's my real friend too. She's pretty like Ma. She's real for real, Ma said, but only cartoon real.

It's confusing.

Superman is cartoon real but there is a real man who plays him on TV. Trees are real in TV and in outside too.

Skateboards and cars and so are girls and boys, they're all real for real.

 _How can they be real when they're so flat?_

I don't know. I'm still trying to understand.

When _he_ comes again, Ma and me could make a barricade. We could shove bed against the door so it doesn't open.

Won't _he_ get a surprise!

I'm laughing now.

"Let me in," he will shout, "or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down."

Stupid _he_!

Grass is only in TV and so is fire, but fire could come in room for real if I push the stove button and red jumps onto my sleeve and burns me up.

I'd like to see that but not it to happen to me.

Air is real and water is real for real only in bath and sink. Rivers and lakes and oceans are only in TV. Because if rivers, lakes and oceans just whizz around in outside, wouldn't it would make everything wet?

I don't know.

I want to shake Ma and ask her if ocean is real.

Room is really real, but maybe it's got a cloak of invisibility on like Harry from Harry Potter and nobody knows we're here.

I want to be in bed with Ma. Instead I lay on rug, making snow angels like I saw on A Christmas Carol. Ma makes me watch that on Christmas Day. I don't really like it but Ma does and it makes her smile, so, I guess, it's okay.

I do snow angels hundreds of times until my arms and legs ache.

When it's dark, I try and eat more baked beans that I had before but they're disgusting now. Mushy and gooey. Maybe that's what my brain looks like. _Yuck_. I have some bread and peanut butter instead. I'm looking for the jar of jelly but I can't find it anywhere. I think we finished it all already.

I'll remind Ma to ask for some for next week's grocery shopping.

I open freezer and put my face on the bags of peas and spinach and yucky green beans, I keep it there till I'm numb. Even my eyelids. Then, I jump out, shut the door and rub my cheeks to warm them up.

I still can't feel my face, it's all cold and numb. I like the feeling.

Looking up, it's really dark in skylight now. Maybe moon is here today. I don't know. I can't see him showing his big shiny face tonight. Maybe clouds are covering moon.

I get into my sleep t-shirt. Right arm into right sleeve, left arm into left sleeve. I wonder if I'm dirty because I didn't have a bath today. I try to smell myself, I think I smell okay.

Ma didn't get up all day and she didn't have a bath too. But Ma always smells nice, sweet like flowers.

In cupboard, I lie down with blanket tight around me but I'm still so cold. _Oops!_ I forgot to up the thermostat today. That's why it's cold! I only just remembered. _Silly me!_ But I can't do it now. It's night.

I want to sleep with Ma tonight but I'm scared that _he_ might come tonight.

 _What if I'm in bed with Ma and he comes?_

I don't know if it's nine yet, it's too dark for seeing watch. But I tiptoe into bed extra slow so Ma won't notice. I'll just lie near Ma. If I hear the _beep beep_ then, I can jump back to cupboard real quick.

 _What if he comes and Ma won't wake up, will he be madder?_

 _Will he make worse marks on Ma?_

 _What if Ma can't protect me?_

I stay wide awake so I can hear _him_ come and kick _his_ butt when _he_ hit Ma again.

 _He_ doesn't come but I still stay awake.

Ma is wake now. I can hear the orange bottle rattling, she's taking another painkiller.

Sometimes I think Ma eats too much of that and not real real food. If Ma stops eating those pills, maybe Ma will be hungry then. Ma says she needs it or she'll be sick. But Ma is still sick when she eats it. So, maybe she should just stop eating it.

"Ma." I whisper in her ear, "Are you hungry?"

Ma's face is buried in pillow and she just shake her head, "No, baby...I-" her voice crack and I know she is crying again. She doesn't let me see her tears but I know she is crying. So, I hug her middle tight and tell Ma that I love her so so much.

She doesn't tell me back because she's crying but it's okay because I already know she loves me very much.

It's so many hours now and Ma is making sounds which means she is sleeping. I can't sleep because I want to ask Ma why _he_ said don't forget where she got me.

 _Don't I come from Ma?_

* * *

 ** _How did you like this chapter? I hope you enjoyed. Please REVIEW. And once again, I apologise for the late update._**

 ** _Don't worry The Montgomeries and Mark are coming next chapter._**

 ** _Also check out my one shots of this couple of the year! Haha!_**


	5. Chapter 5 - 2,575 days

**Chapter 5 - 2,575 days**

 _2,575 days. . ._

At first, it was once every five agonising days. And those days were long drawn-out. Unnecessarily so, because she was too frightened to even try anymore.

Torturous, tormenting, traumatic. A lingering peace in the air that cradled her close. Waiting to envelop her.

But science had told her three to four days, without taking into account the external and internal factors. Just roughly, just around, just approximately seventy-two to ninety-six hours.

 _Three to fours days._

A human can go for more than three weeks without food, but water is a different story. Because at least sixty percent of the adult body is made of water and every living cell in the body needs it to keep functioning.

She counted.

On the first day, she'd be angry. She'd be cranky. She'd be irritable. She cries when she's past breaking point, when she's so utterly frustrated - a miserable trait of hers since she's hardly ever _not_ frustration. She'd scream inside. Inside because she was still conserving energy, after all. She was still surviving. Of course, headaches, cramps, fatigue followed through.

On the third day, that's when the uncanny started to present itself. Cognitive functioning - zero. She don't think she was aware of anything on the third day and the two days that followed. She'd always forget what hunger and thirst feels like. And that's partly because she'd be so tired that keeping her eyelids open was a pointless distraction. Using the _'bathroom'_ was non-existent because there wouldn't be anything for her body to flush and rid of.

 _Are her kidneys already failing?_

 _Will her heart stop today?_

 _Has her brain shrunk?_

The brain is three quarters water after all.

She'd think to herself, _is_ _today it?_

The fifth day was always the fucking hardest. _Always_. The anticipation, the excitement, perhaps, was what she couldn't get herself to control. The knowing that she'll see _him_ soon - not _him_ , water and food. She'd salivate embarrassingly while her stomach growl loudly and squirm painfully, waiting for _him_ to return.

She waited patiently.

Never taking more than ten steps because she was basically hibernate. She didn't need to burn any more calories, especially when there's none left to burn.

Then, she waited impatiently.

But she's not sure what she was waiting for, really. Maybe death. Perhaps a mirage of food and water. Maybe even for _him_.

She'd dream about Carolyn's dessert. A specific dessert. She can still see it so clearly. _Yes, that was her favourite_. Only she had forgotten what it's called and couldn't wreck her brain to recall since that constitutes to using what was left of her exuberance.

It was a wild array of textures, she knows that for sure. The shattering, airy crunch of meringue at the edges, and the softer one of toasted almonds, with rolling bubbles and pockets skittering across the surface. They're more relaxed than a Florentine, more lightweight than a brittle. And they're altogether really lovely over a cup of coffee with an old friend.

 _Her old self._

Oh, yes, she'd love to have coffee with _old-Addison_ and smack some sense into her and tell her to quit whining, stop complaining because she's not the first wife who's been neglected by their husband - her life is A-OK, better than okay, that she and her husband will work it out somehow, eventually or maybe they won't. But all they had to do was communicate with patience, because heaven knows they weren't doing that at all. That if the other has throw in the towel - she's not pointing fingers - the other has to pick it back up and say no. Maybe even scream it so he'll notice her. They made a vow and she still intend to keep it.

But that's just thoughts and wishes now.

 _It's okay. You'll just have to wait a little longer_. _He's coming tonight._

Her mouth would water; she'd tell herself - she's good, she's okay. Just a few more days, hours, that _this_ was just like two years ago. Only it wasn't because two years ago, she was in control.

She'd fight harder. She'd pray harder for today not to be it because she had made it this far and all her hardwork can't be in vain - it can't be for nothing.

Yes, she tried. And that was her punishment for trying to escape.

She tried the other escape too, but the only problem was that, she'd just always _always_ make it to the fifth day. _Always._

Well, she guess, she's much stronger and resilient than she thought she ever was.

 _Would her parents be proud of her?_

To know that their daughter is a fighter; she haven't given up yet.

 _When you control your thoughts and emotions, you control everything, dear._

She thinks it was Bizzy who told her that - one of her mother's bovine life lessons and hacks. Because even though Bizzy wasn't the ideal parent - what the heck is the ideal parent anyway, she knows she isn't - she've always just wanted what's best for them. Her and her brother included. And for the longest time, she was bewitched to her mother's every word, transfixed like any young girl would and mesmirised by the awe that is her mother.

Small and looking up at her mother, she remembered telling herself she will never measured up to the flawless Beatrice _"Bizzy"_ Forbes Montgomery. Small because she didn't sprout until she hit fifteen, where over the summer she grew four inches in height and lost almost forty pounds, where the first day of High School and the succeeding years after she was teased for her appearance, for looking like _Big_ _Bird_ and _Sasquatch_ for her flippers. She couldn't really blame them for stating the obvious. Then, it hurt nevertheless, especially when her mother reckoned that they were accurate.

She guess the unloving and unattuned Bizzy was her way to love and nurture and mother because it was all she've ever known and grown up to suffer as well. Yes, her grandmother, rest her cold and bitter soul - Margaret Cornish Forbes - was exactly that, the mother of all unattuned mothers. Cold, mean, and hypocritical.

Bizzy just wanted what's best for them and she's understands her reasoning and approach - she thinks she can pity her mother for being downright cruel at time. Because she wanted the best in terms of Bizzy, best through her own manual, best by her own set of rules and criteria.

Perhaps that's what makes an ideal parent.

 _Wanting what's best for your children._

And she thought, for a while she actually mastered the art of what Bizzy was preparing her for - the ability control every aspect of _your_ life. Not as excellent as her mentor, of course, but just as.

 _Blink when you feel as though you're about to cry. Just blink._

Her mother told her and she closed her eyes as instructed. Innocently and intently listening to her mother like any other naïve ten year old would. Later she learnt that it is in infancy and childhood, a daughter would catch the first glimpse of herself in the mirror that is her mother's face.

So, that entails that she is Bizzy, right?

 _Now, picture an ocean...You are that ocean. And when you see a wave coming, it's all mind over matter from this point on, dear, and you just simply blink. Just like that - blink._

Her eyes were closed and she saw a wave in a distance - the undesired emotion - and she blinked through closed eyelids.

 _I did it. I did it, Bizzy._

She beamed at her mother. Waiting for a _well-done-Addison-pat-on-the-back_ on her mother's part. An approval she sought so fiercely that never flattered.

 _No, you didn't, dear. It's just your imagination. It takes immense discipline and practice, Addison. Don't think you can master the skill over night because it's not as easy as I make it seem...But you're still a Forbes, we're nothing if not mavens of discipline and self-control._

Oh, how she wishes she could be more Forbes than Montgomery.

 _Why don't you teach Archer about these stuff too, Bizzy? He's missing out on a lot._

She was always so puzzled as to why her mother never sat Archer down and teach him all the life lessons she had taught her.

 _Because, darling, you see, you're a lady and us, ladies are cursed with vulnerability, unlike men. And I have to teach you all this, so you'll be prepared for the future and you can protect yourself. I only want you happy, dear._

She wanted to follow that up with a question, but Bizzy didn't seem too in tuned in ' _preparing_ ' her for the future anymore and had told her to go practice the piano because Rachel Greene can play Beethoven with her eyes closed and stupendously, she added.

 _From what? She needs to protect herself from what?_

And for years, she've been asking herself the wrong questions. _From what?_ The pronoun was incorrect all along since it should've been _whom_ , rather than _what_.

 _Whom does she need to protect herself from?_

It wasn't a thing that she ought to shelter herself from, like she thought her mother had meant, it was a someone - the someone.

And she only started realising that late, when it had become too late, when she stopped doing just that - protecting herself - because she saw no point in it, especially when she found _the someone_ whom would never hurt her. She need not hide away from the love of her life.

It all faded away when she married Derek.

But she should've known. Her mother had warned her. It was basically a warning. Bizzy knows best - she always does and she knew, even then, that her daughter is an attention seeking whore - even more so than the average female. And husbands don't always grant wives with that because they don't understand since they aren't the ones cursed with vulnerability, empathy, emotions.

 _Emotions_.

Derek had always said she had none But, really, she actually thinks she has too much of those.

 _Emotions_.

Maybe she's just great at masking them. Maybe she's better than her mother at it. Maybe she should stop undermining her capabilities and give herself some much needed credit and praise once in a while.

She should let Derek blame her mother really. Perhaps her father too. Because it's the lack of parental warmth and validation that shaped who she've become. It's those lacking that warped her sense of self, made her lack confidence in and be wary of close emotional connections.

But then, she remember that her mother is Bizzy Forbes, and she still manages a couple of different emotions from time to time.

But she, she just seemed to have given up long ago.

She used to think that maybe - just maybe - if she squeezed a couple tears over the multiple coats of mascara, she could stop Derek from taking another step towards the door. Maybe he'll care this time and truly understands how lonely she is. Maybe she should just talk to him. But, that's the thing, she did. At the very beginning, he just laughed at her. And she reciprocated with a giggle because she heard it echoed in her head and it sounded like a joke.

 _Don't worry, Addie. Mark will keep you company._

Towards their end, he actually believed her. _A little._ Not so much since she never made things easy for herself. She's not sure how because nothing had really changed, other than their more frequent explosive spouts.

 _Derek._

It was the first Christmas they didn't celebrate together. They made a vow that even with their busy schedules, Christmas would be a must for them. Because Christmas was theirs, they both agreed on that. A verbal contract.

They just stood there, the two of them, in the hallway - it was empty apart from the divider that sat their wedding photos and the little knick-knacks she had collected. And when a tear finally formed in her left eye, he watched her as she blinked it away. And then she silently cursed at herself because maybe that's what he was waiting for.

 _Blink when you feel as though you're about to cry._

Even though she was all the way in Connecticut, her mother was still talking in her ear.

He just shook his head and took another step. Maybe he was disappointed in her. The more the merrier, because he wasn't alone. She was disappointed in her too.

 _I'll see you...later._

The last word - _later_ \- it sounded like a question, like he wasn't even sure.

And when he was chosen to assist on a deep brain stimulation, a procedure that's all the way in Seattle, a marvellous opportunity and exposure for him - of course it was. She was more than happy for him, she was the one who helped him study and run through the procedure even though she sucked at neuroanatomy.

They were a duo. Partners.

"Are you going to say anything before you leave?" she asked. "A goodbye maybe?"

He just watched her blankly. "You look pretty."

Her nose curled at his lie because she's gotten way too thin to be pretty anymore. So, she told him that she's never been pretty anyway, just attractive once upon a time. He used to tell her that that was much _much_ better. Now, he doesn't even warrant her defiance with a response.

He looked at her, a mixture of disgust and confusion crossing his blues quickly. The last time he looked at her like that was when he caught her slumped beside the porcelain toilet bowl, wedding ring on the floor beside her, making her fourth finger look horribly bare. He told her he'd never seen anyone look so pale and so weak as he watched her try to regain composure.

Addison remembered her legs being too shaky for her to stand, and when she'd attempted it, she fallen back down in a heap.

Her skin was cold, he'd let her know just that as he'd carried her to their bedroom.

 _Until that moment, she'd forgotten how to remember._

The last time she truly felt connected, they'd gone to the grocery store, and on impulse, and had decided to buy enough ingredients to make an apple pie.

The pastry was soggy on the bottom and burned on the top, and the sugar in the filling had separated from the apples. She'd smeared some over his lips and then kissed it off and he'd done the same to her.

Their clothes came off faster than she could ever remember them coming off before, and he had her right there, on the kitchen counter.

The next day, she made herself sick in their bathroom with both the shower and sink running, because the smears of apple pie had taken her over her daily calorie intake, and once she was done, smelling minty-fresh, she kissed him, then, told him to _fuck_ her, because she needed to burn as much calories as she can.

She'd never used that word before, nor would she ever again, and now she remembers the frown etched into his face as she removed her silk nightgown.

"What?" she had barked as he stared.

He said nothing, just fingered each protruding rib, both hip bones until she couldn't stand the scrutiny any longer and had taken charge, on top of him like he'd always wanted back in medical school. Only it wasn't medical school and now as she recalled, she thinks he had actually protested and most probably didn't want _it_ or _her_ at all.

She remembers how he looked at her the day of Savvy and Weiss's wedding, when she stood at the top of the staircase in midnight blue.

She remembers when he kissed her neck and told her she'd better not be wearing panties because there were all kinds of things he wanted to do to her in the cab.

She remembers his scent and his eyes and the warming mixture of Scotch on his breath.

She remembers the day she fell in love with him and the day he told her he loved her almost a thousand times before.

For so long, she'd forgotten how to remember. Now she can't remember how to forget.

She wants to forget her past. It's too painful to remember.

 _Why is it so difficult to obtain control?_

She has no control over her own life and her son's too because _he_ plays them like the dummies she used to practice inserting NG tubes, central lines and catheters in rotation.

She's lost in every aspect of that word.

Lost, because she wanted more-

"Ma!"

The cry snatched her from her daydream and she jumped, joints vibrating painfully, and she stopped threading her fingers through her son's hair.

"Ma! No! Ma!"

She tensed at his words, heart shredding into pieces as she gently tried to wake him from his nightmare.

"Christopher," she kept her voice low. Not wanting to rattle him any further but she can't help and wonder what he's dreaming about. "Hey, it's okay. Wake up."

He's still asleep, his face scrunched with fear and body rigid, but his hands were anxiously holding onto something - or perhaps someone - above.

It looks as though he's trying to hold on... _onto her?_

 _Oh goodness!_ She's going to be sick.

That has always been her nightmare too.

"MA!"

He's louder now, he's thrashing everywhere and his legs were in sync with his arm. Left, right, up and down, he's grabbing, trying to hold on. And her heart is sprinting away, she feels panicked, like it's actually happening. Like _he's_ here and wrenching Christopher out of her arms.

"MAAA! I DON'T WANNA GO!"

She took his clawing arms and pinned them at his sides and pressed his body tightly onto hers, carefully enveloping him to safety, to what he's desperately urging.

"Baby, it's okay. I'm here. It's just me. You're safe, okay. Just open your eyes, Christopher."

She's holding him even closer now, whispering safety into his ear and hopes he can hear her, believe the dexterity in her voice.

He'll always be safe when he's with her.

"Christopher, sweetheart, I'm here...It's only me..."

She felt his whole body tense against her and he cried out once more and for a second, she feared he's never going to wake from his nightmare, that just like her, he'll wake up to a new one over and over and over again. But then, he softened, relaxed and she did too.

"It's okay, baby. Just a bad dream." she assured him quickly while stroking his flushed cheek and keeping him close to her chest. She don't know if it's possible but she's positive he still has that newborn baby smell. "You're okay, believe me...We're okay..."

She wishes that wasn't a lie, because their days are forever numbered here. Their end could be any day now.

If only she could somehow get that fucking door open.

He just looked up at her with a frown, lips trembling, wide eyes that are a carbon copy of hers, and other than the reflection of her damn cheekbones, she's able to read something much deeper in his crystal clear blues.

 _Relief._

He's relieved.

 _Was it because of the nightmare? Or because of yesterday? Or perhaps both._

"You wanna talk about it?"

He just scrubbed a tear off his cheek and shook his head, adamant. _No_.

Maybe she'll ask later.

She pulled him close.

He's so much like her and in so many ways, like they're _almost_ twins. _Almost_. Almost like he's not part monster.

Not at all.

She'd like to think that they're exactly alike with no difference whatsoever. But just like opening a Pandora's box because she has no control and she only reacts on impulse now, she caught a glimpse of what's not her. _Just blink._ And she did and unlike Pandora, she's able to close the said box tightly and shelf it high enough for no one to reach. Especially her.

She don't think him in that way. He's hers and only hers.

He reached out to skim over the bruises on her neck and she can't help but suck in a breath when he did. It's just another medal decorating on her graying skin - another proof for her feeble attempts.

She's never enjoyed being on either ends of physical fights. Verbal fights are a whole other story.

"I'm sorry, Ma." he whimpered into her shirt, closing his eyes shut like he's afraid that just looking will further hurt her, "Does it hurt?"

 _Does it hurt?_

She guess it does.

 _He's_ psycho.

"No, it doesn't. It's okay."

It's a lie and she thinks Christopher knows it too because he's smart like her - actually even smarter and her voice is too painfully coarse for anything to be okay right now.

"What's a little freak?" he asked, twisting his little body slightly so they're directly looking into each other's eyes. Sad and blue, lashes matching the head of hair that's too dark a shade to be exactly hers.

 _Poor little freak's got two heads or something?_

She wished he hadn't heard that.

"Oh, Christopher." Addison's eyes fill with tears, and she gulped down a shaky breath to keep it together.

"Why _he_ saying something is wrong with me?"

Sighing, she cupped his cheeks, "There's nothing wrong with you. You're perfect." and kissed the tip of his nose, "So so perfect."

It's cold.

"But why _he_ said it?"

 _He_ says a lot of things and most of them are moronic and obtuse and she learned to block him out a long time ago.

" _He's_ just trying to drive me crazy."

"Why _he's_ -"

"You know how you like to play with your cars and toys?" she wrapped her arms around him and he nodded, "Well, _he_ likes to play with my head." she tapped her own head and he looked uneasily at her, confused maybe on how's that even possible. But, as kids are, he quickly jumped to the next puzzle.

"Is laid off like lying down?"

 _Right_. She almost forgot about that. _He's_ been rendered jobless for basically half a year and in all that time she had thought _he_ was miles away at work and miles away from them and they were miles away from danger, when in reality, _he_ was just and most likely, _here_. There - in that stupid house - while they're here - in _his_ stupid backyard.

"No. It means _he_ lost his job."

Everything is so out of control and uncertain now. The probability of _him_ coming into this box at any given time is much more higher than ever.

 _He's_ probably _there_ right now.

 _Is he looking for a job?_ She wants to know. Needs to know his plans. Demands to know what's in store for them. _What is he going to do with them?_

"Why _he_ said don't forget where you got me?"

That question hit her like a freight train.

"Oh, give it a rest for one minute, will you?" she snapped and lifted Christopher off her lap, heading for the refrigerator. She's parched and she thinks she absolutely can devour a whole cow right now.

That thought just made her very nauseous.

She has no idea why she's being so spiteful so suddenly.

Of course, it's the question, she's just not prepared to answer that. Never will be, because she never thought she'll conceive a child in the way she did. _Heinous_.

 _What's wrong with her?_

No one ever thinks they will.

It's just that she was always dreaming for a fairy-tale marriage with the _'and they lived happily ever after'_ at the end. Just like the classics. She don't know how she'll react when he asks who his dad is. She hopes he'll never give it a thought.

Christopher is no one else's but hers.

He's quiet, she observed. No more relentless questions.

Grabbing a glass, she filled a cup of juice for herself, and stared in the refrigerator like she does sometimes to get lost in a haze of bright when all is not. Only this time, there's nothing to get hypnotised into because there's no light piercing it's way into her eyes.

It's dark.

 _That's weird._

She closed the door shut before opening it up again. She does that three more times, rubbing her palms over her face after each time, irritated. She thinks she knows why.

"The minute's up, Ma. Why _he_ says don't forget where you got me? Wasn't it heaven?"

She's yanking the chain on the lamp. Up, down, up, down - with a lot more force than she should. "He meant...who you belong to."

"I belong to you."

She gave him a small smile.

"Is lamp bulb used up?"

"No. I don't think so." she shivered, running her hands over her arms.

"Why lamp is not _oning_?"

"Power cut."

 _He_ cut the power in this dump. Just when she thought things here couldn't get any worse, it did.

"What's that?"

Her punishment.

* * *

Bitterly cold and humid - such an enchanting combination. _Isn't it?_

Much like that day.

 _Who the fuck gave Mother Nature the permission to let it fucking rain when it's barely even forty degrees?_

It's already goddamn cold without the freaking water falling from the sky.

He pulled on his coat tighter and jammed his hands, that were shaking so badly, into his pockets. He's going to need another drink, he reckons, if he wants his hands to stop seizing.

 _Has he thrown away his life?_

That's what everyone kept babbling on and on about. But he doesn't think so. He just chose to stop investing too much into something that's so uncertain.

He'd like say he's living in the moment, in the now and present.

He'd also like to say that he's angry. He's still angry and with very good reason too.

Not at Mother Nature; at the other mystical and fictional creature.

He's not going to point fingers. _No, he's not._ He's not that petty. It's controversial. _Ok, but who cares, really?_ He've always had a flare for stirring up trouble anyway.

 _Who did you think started the rumour that coach and the ancient librarian from high school were getting it on in the locker room?_

 _Or hid away Jake Padalecki's lunch and clothes after gym?_

 _Or pushed Maya at the playground in kindergarten because she said she didn't want to marry him when he had asked her to?_

It's a lie. He loves being petty. And the one to point finger at for his life turning upside down is God.

 _Yes, God._ A three letter destruction. Simple as that. G. O. D.

The biting cold chilled his fingers into clumsy numbness.

Much like the day Bizzy called to tell him that the police had paid them a visit, informing them of Addison's disappearance.

 _Disappearance? What the hell's wrong with you, Bizzy? That's fucked up. Even for you._

He spat into phone because he thought his mother was propelling one of her usuals, her garbage that no one really ever pays mind to ( _Only Addie. She takes Bizzy's criticism to heart - always._ ) But then, she wasn't since Bizzy actually sounded worried. Abnormally concerned and frantic. Not like the mother they had opened their eyes to.

And for once Bizzy wasn't all that cold.

 _No_. His sister can't be missingHis sister can't still be missing because the first forty-eight hours are the most important in a missing person investigation.

 _Seven years._

It is cold. She is cold. Her case is cold.

Wandering, he's been strolling aimlessly until he can't move anymore, until his legs gave out and he's surprised but also, not really, to find himself in the park that Addison and him used to play in as children.

His lips turned a more blueish hue and his teeth chattered like a pneumatic drill. _Had he been out here for minutes or hours?_

It's really just a mystery.

 _Like where is his sister's body?_

He's on the same bench where they'd sit and eagerly munch on their ice creams like it's their first ever and where they'd take breaks before resuming whatever game they were playing. It's the same bench because the engraving is still here - _A. A._

 _Addison. Archer. Or perhaps, Addison Adrianne. Yeah, that's more like his sister._

To his left, overlooking the now icy lake is the hill where Addison tumbled over after falling off her pink bicycle.

She had wanted a red one but the store didn't have any bikes that she liked in red and she was adamant on not going back home empty handed. So, she settled for pink.

He was ten. She was six. He was terrified when she didn't move and he thought he had lost her.

Little did ten year old Archer know, years later he really would lose his sister.

It was a lifetime ago. His precious little sister. Four years younger than him. She's dead. He's still struggling to come to terms with that. _Dead_. He's a doctor. Dead, that word shouldn't have to have any affect on him.

Images assaulted his mind of Addison, happy and healthy and smiling with that gap in between her two front teeth, showing off her math test scores to parents who couldn't even bother to at least fake enthusiasm. But he cared, he have always cared about his baby sister.

 _Always._

And so he took her out for ice cream in celebration for having a perfect score. The highest amongst all first graders

She held his hand as they crossed the street. Tightly like she always does because she had an irrational fear of crossing the street that she didn't quite quickly grew out of like everyone else said she would.

 _Archie, hold my hand._

He puffed a breath, annoyed.

 _Seriously, Addie. You're such a crybaby._

He didn't want to hold her hand. He's ten. A big boy.

 _What would his friends think of him if they saw him?_

He grabbed her hand and yanked her arm, dragging her with him to cross the street so she'd hurry since she was always that; slow. She calls it graceful because Bizzy said a lady must show poise and grace. But he just calls it slow.

Let's just say there were tears after that.

 _I hate you! I hate you!_

He didn't care that she had said that to him, then. He screamed the same thing back at her. _I hate you too_. It's what siblings do because _I-hate-you_ holds no meaning, because, really, they both know they don't.

Now, it's a different story.

He can still almost feel her tiny palms on his. _Almost_. Small and cold. But if he'd just close his eyes and concentrate even harder on that day, maybe - just maybe he could pretend that he's still holding his sister's hand.

 _Don't leave me here!_

 _I can't always hold your hand, Addie!_

He can't bare it anymore. He's running away. The wind cut through his skin and tortuously slashed his marrow with constant harsh blows, like rime daggers, as they moaned in the pleasure that was his pain.

Much like the day he sprinted to the other side of Manhattan in great fury.

Without any means of a thought, he sprinted out of his Tribeca loft right after Bizzy called. It's a five mile run powered solely by adrenaline and fear.

 _Where is she?! Where is my sister?! Shepherd, open this fucking door!_

He ran up the steps two at a time and practically flung himself at the familiar mahogany door, banging mercilessly at it with his fists with Addison's voice in his ears.

 _Archer, hold my hand._

 _Huggsy and I can't sleep._

 _Don't leave me here!_

 _I'm scared._

If she's afraid of crossing the damn street, he doesn't even want to think about how terrified she must be.

 _Derek, where's my sister?_

He never liked him. _Derek Christopher Shepherd._

He wasn't even the worst of all her boyfriends, but he never liked him. He _loves_ his sister - no, _loved_ , past tense, because he's dating a child now - but he never liked him. He made her happy - he absolutely did made her happy and still he never liked him.

He never liked any of the boys she brought home.

Truthfully, they could all be Jesus and he'd still not like them.

No man can ever be worthy for his sister.

Okay, okay, he _liked_ Derek. But he'll never admit to that, even if his life's on the line.

Liked, because he has refuged to Seattle, leaving his sister's memory behind in New York to start afresh with an intern who could very well be his daughter.

 _Fine. He's just exaggerating._

He had warned Addison about him, told her that marrying him will be a bad idea, told her that people like him aren't for people like them. _He's not one of us, Addie. Get it through that thick skull of yours._ But she gave him the ' _she loves him and please just be happy for me'_ speech.

He doesn't want to say it and he won't but he can't help thinking it. _I told you so, Addison. But you wouldn't listen to me._

He's not gloating. He's just right, they fell apart after four years of marriage and he just watched it happen because Addison had it all under 'control'.

 _What did you do to my sister?_

He lunged at Derek the second the door opened, his eyes ablaze with something resembling unadulterated hate. They both fell to the ground with Derek landing flat on his back, his head slamming on the hardwood floor that he knows had taken Addison months in finally settling with the classic brown hardwood instead of the modern black.

She had asked for his opinion. The black one, he said, and she agreed with him as well. It was a modern take on the classic brown. And when she invited everyone to the brownstone for a mini get-together and the first sighting of their new house, the floors were brown.

Typical Addison to go for the complete opposite.

 _Where is she, Shepherd?_

He have always had her back whether she liked it or not, whether she was aware of it or not.

He was the one who had beaten the shit out of Chad Michael when he found out he was spreading nasty rumours about her.

He was the one who gave Derek the ' _you hurt my sister I hurt you ten times worse'_ speech before their wedding.

He was the one who had told her to opt for Columbia instead.

He was the one who had relentlessly teased Senna MontClair for an entire year before she transferred because she had called Addison an ugly duckling.

He was the one who carried her home when she tumble down the hill and sprained her ankle.

And the one time he turned his back and trusted Derek to protect his sister, he lost her.

 _If anything happens to my sister, I will kill you with my bare hands!_

Then, he didn't know what went down the night Addison went missing. But now, he does.

Adultery - she had proven that she was a true Montgomery. He don't condone her actions but that too didn't gave Derek the rights to kick her out of her own house.

And when the police asked him about Addison's relationship with her husband, he may or may not have exaggerated the extent of their marital problems, that may or may not have landed Shepherd an arrest, that may or may not be the reason why he was booked and processed and sent to Rikers for two days to wait for his bail hearing.

 _Derek in orange?_

Addison would've freaked out.

Let's just say he was acquitted of all charges.

He's turning the lock. He's pushing the door. He's stumbling. He's falling. He's crashing onto something.

 _He's home._

* * *

We brushed our teeth and ate our cereal many _many_ hours ago. Ma told me to slow down and not eat so fast or I'll have a tummy ache because when we eat in a hurry, we are also swallowing the invisible air with our food.

But how about when we talk, aren't we also swallowing the invisible air? Will I get a tummy ache for talking too?

I need to ask Ma.

She is sitting on chair with her elbows on the table and covering her face with her big _big_ hands and breathing really hard. I think maybe she is tired again because she was vomiting breakfast in toilet all morning.

I put a glass of water on table for Ma to drink.

"Ma, for you."

He didn't cut the water power. I don't know if he maybe forgotten to or not but I think it's good that he didn't.

She look at me and I see her eyes are all shiny and her nose is red and she wipe her face with sleeve and make sniffing sounds. "Thanks, baby." she says to me and I tell it's okay, Ma, and I go play with my toys.

Maybe I'll just ask question later.

Ma gets up and say we need to have a bath but when we turn tub tap on, it comes out all icy, so we just wash with cloths.

She tells me to put my arms up but I forgot that it was all a trick and she tickle me.

"Ma, stop!" I jump away like Spider-Man and we laugh.

 _Sneaky Ma!_

It's so cold and we are shivering, me more than Ma. I wait next to bed, my teeth are shaking too while Ma go find our jackets in dresser.

I cover my mouth when I speak, I don't wanna swallow the invisible air and have tummy ache too. "Ma, it's April, why it's so cold?"

"I don't know." Ma comes back with our sweaters and jackets and socks and t-shirts and pants and goes low like my height but still taller. "Climate change, I guess. Why are you doing that?"

One of Ma's brow is higher and I try to do it too, but I can't. I can do both eyebrows high though. Ma says that makes me special.

"You said if I swallow invisible air, then I'll have tummy ache."

Ma smiles and says I'm funny.

"It's doesn't work like that, Christopher. Just when we eat too quickly, okay? Now, arms up."

-:-

It's brighter through skylight, but only little. Sun isn't so happy today.

TV doesn't work too because TV uses the power. I wish he didn't cut the power, then I could see my friends. Yeah, I miss watching my friends, Dora and SpongeBob and Superman ( _he's my best friend only after Ma_.), on TV because it's so quiet now without them talking. I miss talking to them.

I think Ma miss them too.

Oh, I just remember I had so many _many_ questions about outside that I couldn't ask Ma yesterday, I should now. Ma always like talking about outside. Her face lights up and she smiles with her teeth. It makes her happy.

But I can't remember all the questions, only some. I try to think more, I'm thinking so hard that I think my brain will explode.

 _BOOM!_

"Christopher!"

Ma's being all loud. I jump a little and stop nibbling my fingers. She doesn't like me doing that.

Germs can sick me.

"What did I tell you about fingernails?"

Fingernails are home to many _many_ bacteria and fungus that can sick me. "Sorry." I say and sit on my hands.

"Go wash your hands please."

I go and stand on stool. Ma reminds me to wash under my nails too. I do two minutes on each hand until they're squeaky clean and show Ma.

She says, "Good." and goes back to sewing my jeans that Ma asked _him_ for treat last week because it was too big for me to fit into.

I wish she would ask for chocolate or candy or lollipop. I never had them, only chocolate, once for my fourth birthday. But Ma always says no when I ask. They will rotten my teeth.

 _Once is enough, Christopher._

-:-

"Ma, if oceans and lakes and rivers outside are real for real, then everything must be wet outside, right?" I ask, breathing with my lungs so hard.

I am doing track and I ran miles and miles long. Ma doesn't want to run today, so I run alone. It's not really running miles and miles long - just pretend.

From that wall to that wall.

I don't think she heard me, so I go stand next to Ma. She is taking all the many bags of green beans from freezer and starts chopping them up.

"It's because of gravity." she says.

"What's gravity?"

I'm learning newer and newer things everyday. Ma is super duper smart. She knows lots about everything. But Ma always says I'm so much smarter than her.

No way, Jose! I don't think so. She always know answers to all the math questions and reads the book with no pictures at all. Not even one. Only the cover but that doesn't count. I don't know why Ma still reads that when she always sleeps afterwards.

"It's hard to explain, baby." she stops chopping and plays with my hair. Ma really likes playing with my hair, I think. She says it's soft and smooth and smells nice.

Sometimes I like it when she does that, but sometimes she's pulling too hard and it hurts my head. "Gravity is this, umm, mysterious force that makes everything fall down and, umm...Oh, it's hard for you to understand right now. You're so young. But that's all you need to know for now, that gravity is a force."

Ma says that lot - I'm so young to understand.

Like last year when I was four, I didn't know about outside because I was so young to understand. But now, I'm five, I'm so big, so Ma told me.

"Why are you chopping so many?"

I don't like green beans. _Yuck!_ Ma knows that, I always tell her that I don't want to eat it.

"We have to finish it all before it goes bad, sweetie." Ma gives me my plate with so many I cannot count.

I cross my arms around my chest, "I don't want slippery frozen green beans for lunch." I say.

I don't even like them when they're cooked.

"Well, neither do I." Ma puts my blue plate in front of me and tells me to eat it, "We have to otherwise they'll rot and it'll be waste."

We don't like to waste because food and water is very precious.

But I think green beans should be waste.

* * *

The sky is hazy when he finally woke up or maybe, he regained consciousness - he's not quite sure anymore. His head is aching, an intense pressure is his temples. _Both_ _temples_. The faint light from the predawn sky scream blasphemy so painful that it made him press his arm to his eyes, desperate to block out even the faintest shade of light.

 _He's alone._

And that reminded him of his dear sister.

 _Is she alone up there? Is she working her charm there too? Is she happy there than when she was here?_

He hopes she's _up there_ and not _down there_. They're Montgomeries by blood, so he can only hope.

Addison hated being alone. Even the thought had terrified her. She used to sneak under his covers at night when they were kids and he'd be unaware until the next morning.

Huggsy, Addison's bedtime penguin pal, couldn't even make her feel less alone.

He never understood her. But he does now. He understands the craving of something much stronger. He understands how the darkness can be manipulative sometimes. He understands where she was coming from.

It's too late now.

He's still cold and his skin is clammy and he pulled his coat a little tighter around himself. Even if he's been pretty much feeling this way every single day for the past few years, he doesn't know why he's still complaining.

 _Shouldn't he get used to feeling like...crap?_

 _Where the hell is he?_

He's on the floor. It's hard. He's sure of it.

Looking around, he can see a huge portrait of his grandfather - William Addison Montgomery - and Bizzy's antique armchair that costs a fortune and his father's plaques and certificates for all his successions.

Oh, right. He lives here now. _Again_. He haven't lived here since turning eighteen and leaving for college.

Groaning, he closed his eyes - or at least tried to when he comes face-to-face with the Captain's disappointed frown.

"Go away." he mumbled, waving his arm in the hopes that his father would just puff into oblivion without a speck of trace.

Just like his sister.

He didn't want that thought to cross his mind, but it did.

"You're drunk."

That's an understatement.

"Yea," Archer scoffed as he tried to haul himself off the floor without making a fool out of himself. Well, that's easier said than done nowadays. "It takes one to know one."

In his forty years of life and from the earliest memory he has of his father, he has always seen him with a glass in hand, whether be it neat or coffee that's laced, he's always and for the most part tipsy - if not drunk.

So, it's no surprise that he's where he is today.

Both Addison and him had their first drink at twelve. Whiskey neat. Bizzy would rather they drink responsibly and to her knowing, instead of sneaking out and getting into trouble and in turn, demolishing their reputation.

 _He's not a alcoholic._

Whenever people would accuse him of being that, his head will be screaming, firing words like ammunition or maybe, he's actually screaming in their faces - _Fuck you! You know nothing about about my life!_

He watched as his father sauntered over to the bar - of course, there's a freaking bar at the Montgomery Mansion - and poured himself a drink before taking a seat on the barstool.

"What are you doing, son?"

He knows what he means. He's asking himself the same question pretty much everyday.

"I could ask you the same thing." he managed to make it to the couch before his legs could give out, further proving to his father that he's what everyone says he is.

"You need to get your act together. Get a job. Get an apartment. Get your life straight. It's embarrassing." the Captain sounded calm, polite even, but his voice was cold, like he remembered, and sure enough, he's making him feel guilt for living off of him.

The thing is, he had a job, he had an apartment, he had his life on a straight line. _Had_. But then, he didn't.

He can't form words. He's not going to deny it, he is embarrassing. He's forty. And living in his parents house.

He chuckled - his great escape for when he knows he's in the wrong. "Great. This is so typical of you."

"This..." his father snort, disgust evident on his ageing features as he pointed at him, "This was tolerable six years ago, Archer. A year off the wagon, fine. Two years, okay. But it's been seven years. Seven years, Archer. Do you really think Addie will be pleased with what you've done to your life?"

His jaw is set, hard. He may be right. _Well, he knows he's right._ Addison would not be pleased.

He can just only imagine the fury in her eyes, her arched brows, her pursed lips and the hand on her hip when she finds out that he's reduced to a bum.

 _Get off your lazy ass, Archer! Now!_

And she do her _I'll-count-to-three_ thing.

 _One...two...two and a half..._

Bizzy used to do that to them too.

It's good Addison isn't here to witness the failure he've become.

 _But then again, when did he ever listened to his father?_

They never really cared about Addison. They never truly loved her like he does. They wanted a child, an heir to their fortune and Addison was merely a mistake.

If she was born after the legalisation of abortion, he knows he would not have had a sister.

"You've ruined your life. You lost your license and your apartment. You don't have a job. You sleep all day. And when you're awake, you're drunk. You know...no matter how hard I have tried to turn you into a man, it still remains the one biggest failure of my life."

He wouldn't mind punching his father right now. He really wouldn't. But he's not going to, only because he wants him to feel even more of a failure.

The Captain's failure is his pleasure.

"You're not a man. A man accepts responsibility for his actions. A man takes care of his family. A man don't cheat and lie to his wife. A man don't-"

"Your naivete is adorable." he interrupted, swinging his legs out of the stool, standing up. Archer didn't answer, his jaw clenched.

"You've always been some sad, pathetic, little boy and what you've done with your life have proven that. She's gone. She's my daughter and yes, it saddens me. I miss her too. But she's gone, Archer. Addison is dead. Get over -".

"Shut up!"

His father shook his head dismissively, "Addison-"

"Don't you dare say her name! Just because you have her name on that stupid headstone doesn't mean she's dead!"

They couldn't wait to declare her legally dead, Shepherd included. _Death in absentia_. He was the only one reluctant and of course, no one listened. He's just the drunk brother.

 _Addison._

She was all he's got.

 _Addison._

She was his only family.

 _Addison._

She was the only one who understood him.

"It's been seven years and as much as I want to believe that she's well and...alive somewhere, there're the facts, Archer. Where do you think your sister is?"

* * *

We wake up from our nap and the air is still shivering. I can see the invisible air every time we breathe out.

Good air in. Bad air out.

That's called respiration. We breathe in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide. Many _many_ invisible gases are in invisible air. Only when it's cold we can see it.

Ma jumps out of bed so fast. _Zoom!_ Like Batmobile and spits all of green beans into toilet. _Eww!_ Even Ma's stomach doesn't want slimy icky green beans. I want my stomach to do that too.

I tell stomach it's okay to spit it all out too. Like Ma. But he doesn't.

Later, once Ma feels a bit better, we do science and math questions that Ma thought of. We don't have new books anymore because _he_ said to Ma I don't need to learn any because I will never ever use it in my life.

I don't understand what I will never use in my life.

Today, Ma is teaching me long division and something about the Pythagoras's theorem. I think he is the good man who helped math. I think. Something like that, maybe. I'm not really listening, just nodding and saying "hmm" and "yes, Ma." and "Why, Ma?".

Ma is talking a lot of words but all I understand is triangle. I want to stop now because I don't understand a word and it's making my brain hurt. But I still let Ma do the questions, she seems happier.

Watch says _one-seven-zero-nine_ when I look. It doesn't need the power because it has a secret hiding spot in the back and that is his own life.

Ma keeps yawning because she's tired from doing math. She goes to lie down and take another pill. I don't like it when she's tired because she always don't want to play with me.

 _Go play by yourself first and I'll be right there, baby._

But she never really does. She always forgets.

Skylight getting darker now. I go to lie next to Ma too and clutch her middle.

"I'm glad _he_ didn't come last night." I tell Ma. "If _he_ never comes back, that would be super cool."

 _He_ is always saying all the mean things to Ma. Like she is stupid and crazy and nobody out is caring about her and it makes me angry. I do care about Ma. I always do.

 _He_ doesn't knows that because _he's_ stupid.

"Christopher." she frowns a little. "Just think about it."

"I am, Ma."

I am always thinking.

"No. I mean, what would happen if he doesn't come back? Where would our food come from?"

I know this one. "From the stores."

"No. But who brings the food?"

"Oh."

Ma gets up she says _he'll_ be back tomorrow. _He_ always comes back.

I don't know how she knows that _he_ will.

Ma is talking to herself again like she does sometimes. Doing the cleaning and talking. I once thought she was talking to me but she actually wasn't.

It was funny.

There's a bagel but it's wet and mushy now. Ma throws it away.

"What happens if _he_ doesn't switch the power on again?" I ask.

"I'm sure _he_ will. Maybe later tonight."

-:-

I try the buttons on TV again. Just a dumb gray box, I can see my face but not as good like in mirror. I can see Ma too. She's eating an orange, then taking another pill when she's done.

I wonder what the taste is. It must be yummy because she's always eating it. Maybe it taste like candy. I want to try one.

Maybe I can get it from Ma when she's sleeping later.

We play chess because Ma wants to and I say okay even though, it makes my brain all confused. Hopscotch is next and then, hide-and-go-seek. Only I can hide because Ma is so long to hide anywhere in room. I hide in under bed, beside cupboard and not breathing at all, flat like a paper and it takes Ma hundreds of hours to find me.

Then, we're tired.

Ma braid my hair because it was making my eyes itchy.

We make a tower out of toilet paper roll. We call it the Empire State Building. Ma says it's a skyscraper. It's her favourite. It's super tall because it has one hundred and two floors. _Whoa! I can't count to that high!_ And it's windy on the rooftop and it has tiny viewfinders that makes you see the whole city.

She loves the city and the lights and the freedom, she says.

I ask her what she's talking about. I think it's outside.

She says nothing and do a hand on her nose, sniffing. And I make other towers by myself because Ma doesn't feel well again. She's all quiet and hugging her legs. She does this all the time.

I'm so hungry, so Ma says I can have the last apple.

 _What if he doesn't bring any more apples?_

"Why _he's_ still punishing us?"

Ma twists her mouth. " _He_ thinks we're things that belongs to _him_."

"Why?"

"Well, because we're locked in here, baby." she rubs my back and kisses my head. I'm not a baby anymore, I tell Ma. But I don't tell her that I like her calling me baby.

 _I'm her baby._

I play with truck now because Ma is not feeling it anymore. She's got her face in her hands like it's heavy.

I crunch the apple slowly. "Is your head hurting again?"

"My head is always hurting." Ma is mumbling with her hands pressing to her face. She's sounds weird.

"Isn't the pill suppose to make pain go away?"

She looks through her fingers and at me, her eyes are shiny and red. I think she's crying.

Ma stands up so suddenly that I'm nearly scared by her. She sits on a chair and holds her hand out. "Come here. I have a story for you."

"A new one?"

"Yeah." Ma smiles.

She waits till I'm all folded into her arms and drops a kiss to my head. I'm nibbling the second side of the apple to make it last.

"You know, how Rapunzel wasn't always in the tower?"

That is a trick question, I know this one already. "Yea, she was with mom and dad."

"Yea. No, but after. Remember when she turned twelve, she got locked up in the tower because she grew up to be the most beautiful child in the world with long golden hair."

Dame Gothel locks her up inside a tower in the middle of the woods, with no stairs or a door, and only one room and one window.

"Well, I'm like Rapunzel." says Ma.

I laugh. "Nah. She's a girl with long golden hair. Yours is red, Ma."

Ma's chewing her lip again and I see red on her bottom lip. "Ma, you're bleeding."

She ignores me.

"Yeah, but I'm from somewhere else, like her. Rapunzel. A long time ago, I was in-"

"Up in heaven."

Ma growls loudly and puts her finger on my mouth to hush me. "I was a kid, just like you. I lived with my ma and pa."

I shake my head. _No!_ "You're the Ma."

"Ok. I am _your_ Ma. But I had my _own_ Ma as well. I called her mom. Well, Bizzy, actually but that's besides the point, Christopher." she says quickly. "I still have my ma and she's there," she points to door, "outside."

 _Why Ma is pretending? Is this a new game?_

I don't know.

"She's...I guess, you'd call her grandma. She wouldn't want that, but you know what? Call her grandma, I'd love to see her frown again." Ma laughs but her eyes are still shiny.

Like Dora's _abuela_. That's grandma in Spanish.

"You grew in her tummy?"

Ma nods and combs my hair with her fingers.

"Yes, I did. And I also have a pa. You'd call him grandpa. And I have a big brother, his name is Archer."

I shake my head. "Like the game?"

"No, silly, that's archery. His name is Archer. You'd call him Uncle Archer or Archie. He'll love you so so much, Christopher."

That's too many names to remember. I don't know how Ma can remember all the names for stories. Her brain must be so massive.

My tummy's still empty after finishing apple, like the apple isn't there.

"What's for dinner?"

Ma stops smiling now. "I'm telling you about your family."

I shake my head.

"Just because you've never met them doesn't mean they're not real, Christopher. There's more things on earth than you can ever imagine."

"Is there any cheese left?"

I think I want a cheese sandwich for dinner.

"Christopher, this is important. I lived in a house with my mom and dad and brother."

I don't like this game but I have to play it so she won't be mad. "A house in TV?"

"No. A real house, outside."

That's ridiculous. Ma was never in outside. She is always here with me.

"But, yeah, it looked like a house you'd see on TV. A house - a big big house in Connecticut with a backyard and a fountain and a swing set."

"What's a swing set?"

Ma gets a pencil from shelf and does a drawing on paper with two persons sitting.

"Is that a pirate?"

"That's me and Archer, swinging."

She turns the paper sideways so I can see better. She's all excited now. Her eyes are so bright and huge, she's never like that with me. Ma is different when she talks about outside.

"And I used to go to the playground with Archer and we'd ride our bikes and eat ice cream. Your grandma and grandpa took us to the zoo and the beach and lots and lots of place. And _the Captain_ would take me to his work sometimes and I'd watch him work. I was a little girl."

"Nah."

Ma scrunches up the paper and throws it. She swallows hard, I can see her throat go up down.

One little drop of water drip drop onto table. I blink, and then there's five more drops.

It's not mine.

Turning to Ma, "Don't be crying." I say.

"I can't help it." she rubs the tears over her face. "You're not listening."

She's covers her face with her hands. I try to pull her hands away but she doesn't want me to.

"I miss it."

"The swing set?"

"No. Being outside. My family." Ma sounds so tired of explaining now.

 _But I am Ma's family._

I hold onto her hand. She wants me to believe so I'm trying to but it hurts my head to. "You actually lived in TV one time?"

"I told, you it's not TV." she pinch in between her eyes, "It's real world. Outside of room. You wouldn't believe how big it is." Her long _long_ arms stretch out and she points at all the walls. "Room is only a tiny, stinky piece of it."

"Room is not stinky!" I'm almost shouting. I don't want to be angry at Ma but I am. "It's only stinky sometimes when the garbage rot and when we do poo."

Ma wipes her eyes again but tears aren't stopping. She's crying too much to stop. Ma says if someone cries, it's because they're in a lot of pain. Sometimes I'm really confused with what pain is.

Pain is like when you fall and scrape your knee. Or when you hit pinky toe on chair and table. But I don't see Ma hurt so I don't know why she's in pain.

"You're just trying to trick me and you better stop, Ma."

"Okay." she says, all her breath hisses out like a dying ballon. "I'm sorry."

-:-

"I wouldn't lie to you about this." Ma says while I'm slurping my water. She made me a sandwich for dinner but didn't have one. I asked her why, she's not hungry. "I couldn't tell you before because you were too little to understand so I guess I was sort of lying to you then. But now, you're five, I think you can understand."

I shake my head.

Ma groans loudly and flop onto bed.

It's very dark now. I can't see much but I remember the way around room.

I wiggle to bed to have some of Ma's milk.

Ma is not wanting to talk anymore. She does that a lot when she's angry. She keeps quiet. But I know her mind is not.

"Why don't you like it here?" I ask her.

She sits up and pulls her t-shirt down.

"I wasn't done."

"Yes, you were." she says. I can't see her face but her voice is so mean. It doesn't sound like Ma. Her voice is always nice like music. "You were talking."

I sit up too. "Why don't you like it in room with me?" My breathing is all fast and high, I scrub a tear off my cheek. I didn't even know I was crying.

Ma breath out loudly and pulls me close. "No, Christopher. I always like being with you."

"But you said room was tiny and stinky."

She says nothing for a minute. And I wait.

Maybe she's thinking of her answer. But I think she just really doesn't like being with me in room.

"Yeah. I'd rather be outside. But with you." she says finally, "Always _always_ with you."

"But I like it in room with you, Ma." I rub my nose, sniffling a bit.

I want to be with Ma all the time.

"Okay." Ma wipes away my tears and tells me to stop crying. "Okay, baby."

* * *

 _You make sacrifices for the ones you love._

They spent the rest of the evening singing songs and she tried to be as enthusiastic as she can be, following along Christopher as they sing Itsy-Bitsy Spider for the fifth time. She tried to eloquent a vast range of tones, but somehow today, her larynx is just content in mono.

She's not quite sure what time it is, but she can hear the clock ticking. It's there - in the corner - teasing her with it's mockery.

 _Hahaha! You're trapped in here, Addison! We're stuck with each other...forever and ever..._

Each _tick_ is a laugh to her face and a ridicule with every _tock_ , shouting at her what kind of a mother is she since she can't even manage to get her son to listen and believe her.

The sun had set some hours ago, she thinks, and now, they're basically blind. The moon is somewhere out there, just moody to shine through skylight tonight.

It's not dark. It's black. Asphalt. Charcoal. Tar. She can't make out anything at all. Not even the lumps of furnitures that's suppose to be _there_.

As a child she used to wake in the night and wish for the sun. _Huggsy_ , her stuffed animal, didn't or perhaps couldn't stand a chance against her claw-like nails. Apparently, she would pick at it every night, pulling out it's threads and innards that makes a stuffed toy and slowly obliterate it's entire existence. Her parents would always buy her a new one, but, of course, she had to give him up when she turned eleven and was suddenly deemed too old to be sleeping with a toy.

But Christopher, he's phenomenal in the dark. Not an ounce fearful. _Normal_. A natural, like he's in his element, like it's no different than when there's light. She wants to tell him that the dark is to be feared because that's what differentiates from good and bad, evil and virtuous, Satan and Angel, that he should be afraid because he's not a monster.

Her hands are shaking and she's not quite sure if it's because she's terrified or cold. She's hit with sudden fatigue and she clasped her hands over her ears. "Please can we continue tomorrow?"

She can feel his head move beside her and she stroke one soft cheek. "Okay, Ma."

"The power will probably be back then."

Christopher nodded at that and cuddled closer to her side. He's all bundled up from head to toe. Socks, scarf, jacket; she doesn't want him getting sick. He had protested and screamed at her, but she just wants to be very very careful.

"Good."

"And even if it isn't, he can't stop the sun coming up, right?"

"Right."

She stroked his hair, and kissed the top of his head. Even though it's dark, she knows every inch of him by heart. "I'm sorry." she whispered.

"Why are you sorry?"

She feel her exhalation condense with the air as she sighed. "It's all my fault. I made him mad. He can't stand it when I scream." She haven't done it in years. Not since Christopher was born. "He wants to punish us."

"How he's going to punish us?"

Chewing the bottom of her lip, she stroke the top of his head. "No, he already is. By cutting the power."

"Oh, that's alright."

She chuckled. "What do you mean? We're freezing, we're eating slimy and raw vegetables, it's so dark that we literally can't see anything."

"Yea, but I thought he was going to punish us too. I try to imagine..." he muttered and she listened, she can't quite understand where he's getting at, "Like if there were two rooms. If he put me in one and you in the other one..."

It's then that her breathing seized. Diaphragm froze in the middle of a contraction and her face contorted in a cry that wasn't one of grief. _Gratitude_. She's so utterly thankful to have him in her life.

 _What did she ever do to be blessed with a son like him?_

He's one in a million, one of a kind. There's nobody out there like Christopher, she's sure of it.

He's brilliant, thoughtful, creative, generous, perfect...he's just perfect.

That must be what his nightmare was all about.

"Christopher...you're amazing...you're just perfect...all the way through."

While he tells her that she's the best Ma and he's the luckiest to have a Ma like her, she pull him into her arms and shower him with endless kisses. And once she's done and once he's stopped telling her that he's a big boy now, she rocked him gently, humming a made-up tune. "Ma?"

She mumbled in response.

"Are you sick because of the slimy vegetables? You shouldn't eat it if they're making you sick. I don't want you sick, Ma."

Oh, how she wishes she was just that - _sick_. But life is never too generous when it comes to her. Being sick is a commodity she craves because she can't go through another nine months of hellish persecution.

She has to be sick with the stomach flu.

 _Right?_

* * *

 _ **Hey guy! Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed! I'd love to know your thoughts. So please please review!**_

 ** _Do you guys like me writing in Christopher's POV? Should I continue?_**

 ** _Does anyone know where the Huggsy (_** ** _bedtime penguin pal_ ) ****_reference is from? Let me know if you do! ;)_**

 _ **Their great escape begins next chapter and we'll hear from Mark there too! So stay tuned! Oh, and I'll make Ch.6 slightly less depressing. I hope I can. I just have a flare for angst. :)**_

 _ **And check out my other stories!**_


	6. Chapter 6 - 2,586 days

**Chapter 6 - 2,586 days**

 _2,586 days. . ._

It's strange how easily it all can come back to him. He's not sure what to call it or what it even means or why he's even feeling this way.

It's a concoction, a collection of testaments. All just happening simultaneously, occurring, existing all at once, in a confusing game called life.

It's a harlequin of scattered memories. Ones of gentle caresses, warm hugs, intoxicating laughs, and also the unpleasant ones, unfavourable grunts, painful glances and harsh accusations.

It's there. _Somewhere_. With the wind - fettered together in the air particles that are too minuscule to the naked eye.

It's a crumb, an atom of a scent; no, even less than that - it's more like the premonition of a scent than the scent itself.

He remembered it all. He remembers it all.

He feels it. He felt it all - her, him and they.

 _What they were? Who they were? When did they?_

And just ultimately the question; why?

 _Why would they?_

 _How could they?_

Loving someone is probably the most demanding and assiduously difficult aspect there is to life. Love is beautiful, _yes_ , and ultimately worth all the hassle, sacrifice and inflicting wounds. Love is magical too, but love is just oh-so puzzling.

It's a puzzle with a piece missing. It's Addison, he realised, she's the missing piece to his puzzle.

Love is never taught and can never be taught. It's an endearment, a compassion, an affair so strong that it just comes so naturally with life. There's so many people to love and so many ways to love.

Greedily, completely, gradually, purposefully, fiercely, tirelessly, incessantly, relentlessly.

 _Forever_.

He loved her in every single one of those ways unendingly.

He loved her. He loves her.

It's only human to love more than one person. _Right?_ After all, he is human. _Right?_

To love more than one, it's picture perfect in a broken frame.

 _Right_. It's only human to. But also, it's an excuse to. Because people aren't supposed to. In a world where polygamous practices are frowned upon, it's not a practice for the faint heart. It's not for him. He's a realist. He doesn't take risks. It's like having an aneurysm rupturing right before you, you don't want to be in such predicament.

Never.

Because loving more than one is easy but actually keeping a balance, that wouldn't be toxic and destructive, is not.

He loved Meredith, he did and there were moments when he was so certain that she'd be the last woman he would ever say those three words to.

 _I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you._

But there was just so much more missing, much more torturous minutes toppled on top of each other and, at times like this, he'd find himself trying to convince himself that he had not made the worse mistake of his life.

If he had a time machine, he wouldn't go back to when all _their_ problems started and it's only because he still doesn't know when and where their issues all began. _What happened to them? Why was he pushing her away? Why was she pushing him away?_ Because it wasn't only him. _She runs too._ She ran too. If he could, he'd probably go back to when they first got married. If he could do it all over again, he promise he'd be less stupid, less insensitive, less clueless and less egotistical.

He would tell her all the plentiful that had once upon a time got caught somewhere in his throat.

He's sorry he gave up on them. He failed her as a husband.

He loved her.

He loves her and hates her all at the same.

He loved him like a brother.

He was the brother he never had. He was his brother nevertheless.

He loves him and hates him but he just can't hate them.

But, he's sorry that he hadn't even tried. _Yes_. He would start with that because he really hadn't. It wasn't just one silly mistake of forgetfulness, one missed dinner or anniversary or birthday, it was a long list too many, a number of tragedy that he now has shamefully lost count.

She was his self-accomplishment - the one thing that he wanted and wished for and longed for in all the mornings at Gross Anatomy on Wednesdays, then at Biochemistry at three, and he had made her his and then, decided to rip apart.

Her heart. His heart.

He knows now.

Her name was the whisper he only hears in his head now. _Screechy and scary_. Addison Shepherd. _I'm a Shepherd now_ , she had said with a smile so bright that he had to shield his eyes with his hands. She was happy. He was happy. They were happy too. But their happy phase didn't last as long as they both had anticipated.

Her perfume sits alone on top of his dresser. _Alone, scared and forgotten_. The little three ounce bottle discarded. Collecting dust _Wait, it's not hers._ It's Meredith's perfume. He bought it for Meredith. But it's Chanel No. 5 that Addison loves, that Meredith dislikes.

He can taste flowers in his mouth.

Meredith wore it once when he pointed out that she hadn't even unboxed his dead wife's signature scent.

He could smell it - her or _her_ \- from a mile away. It was Saks Fifth Avenue and Barney's all over again. Chanel flagship store in Paris and cold, greasy pizza. Make-up sex in their brownstone and soft kisses, harsh pushes, angry curses and sweet touches.

He can taste it again.

She had smelt like her. Addison in Paris, on the balcony that overlooked the city, with a white sheet in a laughable attempt of modesty and red framed glasses, sipping a coffee. Their honeymoon - a honeymoon in Paris. A cliché that they both wanted.

She had smelt like Addison in mornings of Gross Anatomy, three tables away in ruby red lipstick, not the pink she normally wears on any other day. Just Gross Anatomy. Red and ready to distract him. Too far away for him to actually smell her.

She had smelt like the memories of a white lace gown, closed regal bronze casket, monochromatic carnations and lilies, vibrant hydrangeas and peonies and a four-tiered buttercream cake with sugar flowers and a stooped Mark Sloan.

She had smelt like the forgotten brownstone, lost love, ardent regret, flagrant passion, forceful indiscretion and punishable violence.

When Meredith was wrapped in his arms in an embrace, his stomach had churned and twisted and flipped in guilt and he he held his breath to swallow back down bile and close his eyes, wishing to never see red and pale and blue-green ever again.

They don't talk about her. He never ever brought her up. She doesn't exist anymore. It's hardly a fable. It's not fiction.

Her name had never come up in any conversations with _their_ family and friends - he's not in contact with the Montgomeries nor Mark anymore, so it's basically just his family because he hasn't been talking to any of _their_ friends from New York either.

 _Why should he?_

Seattle is his home. Seattle is his. New York is seven years ago. New York is the past. And besides he actually likes it here and in fact Seattle likes him too, which all-in-all are the attributes as to why he had decided to stay. Other than Meredith, of course.

He _loves_ Meredith. He can't say that he doesn't because that would be a lie. He loves her because she brought light into his life when there wasn't any. She was his breath of fresh air when he was drowning in regret and deadly what ifs. Until he met her in that bar, he really thought he'd never see the world in bright colours and in vibrancy again.

She loves him too.

She loves him and he loves her and she made him feel normal again. Normal against all abnormalities.

And for a brief second so brief, he'd forgotten why he had even contemplated moving back to New York.

It was change of heart and he thought why should he.

 _Why should he?_

 _Why go back to a place that's only filled with heartbreak?_

 _Why go back to a place where they don't want him?_

He left New York for a reason - to escape the scrutiny of the city's inhibitors.

He needed a new beginning.

He need not be reminded of what happened to his wife every second, every minute, every hour of the day. He need not be accused and spat at, _literally_ , every single day. He need not be worried for his life every time he stepped out of his house. He need not glance over his shoulders every time he walked to the store and he definitely need not be jumped and beatened and threatened every single day of his miserable life there.

Because that's what happens when people don't care, don't want to listen to the truth and just mindlessly conclude for themselves that you're a bad person, a wife beater, a murderer. Even when his name has been cleared. Even when he's been cleared of all charges. Even when he's not in...he can't believe he was denied bail. He's a surgeon. Even when he spent four fucking days in Rikers because the police liked him for the crime he clearly didn't commit. His lawyer had adviced him to not talk and interact with anyone inside but it's hard when you're the outcast amongst tattooed criminals. Even when...

They want to bring justice for the wife he did not kill.

He likes Seattle because Seattle doesn't know. Because Seattle is nicer. Because no one is giving him death stares every single time he steps out of his home. Because no one is spitting at him. Because no one is threatening to kill him. Because no one is calling him a murderer. Because no one is afraid of him.

And he's not afraid of everyone that looks at him anymore.

And that's because no one knows who he really is.

Here, he's Dr. Derek Shepherd, the Head of Neurosurgery. Not Dr. Derek Shepherd, who killed his wife.

 _Yes_. He likes it here better. He likes Seattle. He's made up his mind.

It's early and he has once again beat his alarm clock to the punch. An hour and a half, that is. And it isn't really the first time this has happened to him this month or the last, in fact. It has basically been every day for the last two months that he's woken up to a deep gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. So deep and unreachable that sometimes it'd continue throughout the day.

And this morning is no different. Since this has become habitual for him now, so much so that he now knows what to do it situations like this.

All he has to do is void his mind of _this_ \- whatever this is. _Guilt, perhaps?_ And go on with his day. Trying to just completely forget and ignore... _this_.

He's stretching out of bed, eyes bleary from sitting up half the night going through treatment plans, and he stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee. Only to find the freezer empty of beans, the space in the cabinet for his back-up stash starkly bare.

Addison would never ever allow such atrocity. _Out of coffee beans in the morning?_ He don't think that's ever heard of in their brownstone because she's always on top of things, well-organised and well-aware of what goes in and out of their kitchen, though she barely used it, really, other than to make coffee, and what needs to be restocked in their pantry.

Their...that sounds so odd now. Their, there is no _their_ anymore.

And he, he was just a free rider, who took advantage of his wife's existence, who followed along because he always has her to do it for him.

He had her to do everything for him.

And so, with Meredith sleeping it off, which could either be work or tequila, he's not sure which because the two have overtime blurred into one, he decided to head out for a fresh-brewed caffeine hit and a restock of his shelves while he's at it.

He threw a chunky knit sweater over his t-shirt and a pair of jeans over yesterday's boxer shorts. Fresh socks and a quick brush of his teeth were his concession to hygiene, but only because he couldn't find yesterday's socks. His hair took some rough and tumble from his fingers, while a splash of cologne stung his stubbled jaw, and then he was ready to hit the streets.

Even bundled up in a jacket, the frigid Seattle air caught his breath, eyes quickly watering from the cold. He calculated time and distance to frozen toes and reindeer nose, and adjusted his route accordingly.

He don't think there's a Dean and DeLuca in Seattle. There's one that's not nearly as similar, but it's a place he can only settle for.

Sunday morning shopping in Dean and DeLuca was their thing. _Their_ \- Addison and he. It was something they both enjoyed doing together. It was a mere two blocks up Lexington and one block over, on the corner of Madison and 85th, and with enough coffee beans to sink a merchant ship.

They would always get a little lost in the shuffle on the corner of busy 77th Street, when the subway disgorged a bunch of Chinese tourists flowing against the tide, cameras strung like leis around their necks. But then they'd emerge to a turn at the corner and head in through forest-green doors to a food-lover's paradise; the kind of deli angels might have envisioned if they were looking for a heavenly snack.

Suddenly coffee beans weren't the only thing his pantry needed. Once inside, surrounded by the sublime aroma of briny olives, rich, ripe cheeses, Serrano ham and other expensive cold cuts, chocolate of the highest cocoa content, wine, spirits and coffee, coffee, and more coffee, he found himself grabbing a basket and heading deep into this culinary treasure trove.

Oh, his heart sank at all the wonderful and beautiful colours and brands after brands to chose from and wines from all over the world, Addison would be in her element here. They, or more like she while he just agrees, could spend hours in here. Reading nutritional values and contemplating the best product for them to choose.

Oh, he feels so terribly awful because he's doing this without her. She was his partner in all, in everything. Maybe he ought to bring Meredith along and make this their thing too. Though he doubt it ever will.

Over a hundred dollars lighter later and his goods bagged, he lifted his takeaway coffee cup and headed for the door. His mouth was watering at the prospect of that first sensual hit of coffee, taste buds howling to be slaked. And that's when he saw _her_.

Seated at the small window shelf, alone, sat a redhead who had Addison's precise shade. Exactly alike. _Twins_. And from behind, she looks a lot like the love he lost. She had her back to him, her coat draped over the only other stool, which sat to her right. She had her hair knotted into a careless, artful bun. A simple white cotton shirt hung a little loosely from her slender shoulders, wide cuffs exposing her delicate wrists.

She's followed him too. She's followed him to Seattle.

He had no time to ponder the meaning of all this since his brain was too caught up absorbing the detail he could see to fathom the mysteries he couldn't. She looked so impossibly young from behind, just the girl he'd fallen in love with in medical school. The girl whom he'd married.

Surely, that's his wife.

He froze, coffee cup in one hand, bag of expensive groceries dangling from the other, while he took in the scene. She sat slightly hunched over, her posture that of the afore-imagined college girl instead of the upright, disciplined deportment she adopted over the years. A camera sat on the ledge beside her own cup of coffee, while her finger hovered over the screen of her phone.

This hovering pose, lip drawn between teeth, spoke to indecision, hesitation, the kind of mulling a girl might go through before taking a leap and texting a guy.

Maybe she too came to Seattle to start fresh.

He could be wrong. And he is. Of course he is wrong, because the story he'd spun for himself didn't make any sense because when she stood up and walked past him, it's tears that he's trying not to shed.

* * *

People say darkness presses in, well, it doesn't.

At least she don't think it does.

Anyway, what does it even mean for darkness to press in?

Darkness does not press in. Darkness is just there. _Always_. Sometimes even faster than the speed of light.

Because darkness is cunning and devious and definitely clever. Darkness kisses up to your skin closer than a mother and whispers excitement into your ears.

 _You look so much prettier in the dark, Addison. That way, no one can see you._

Darkness is a familiar friend - a best friend, because it will never ever leave, because you can work a magic in your head in a matter of seconds and _tada!_ \- you're with your best friend again.

Darkness is funny and glib, flattering and cool.

 _Darkness is you._

Darkness will be your most favourite, most desired, most wanted right up until all your exits are blocked. You have no where to go now. Only then, darkness will not be your most favourite, most desired, most wanted because you will be looking for the light. _An_ _exit_. _An escape._ The light to the other side.

A way to escape your friend because darkness is not longer that - your friend. An enemy, now.

Because darkness doesn't actually know you or want what's best for you or even love you anymore.

Because darkness will be encouraging you to find an escape or escapes when the first doesn't go as plan. Like the ones you can open in yourself given a cutting edge. Or a twisted sheet to tie onto something high above. Or eighteen of those little relief you have in your pocket. No wonder Amy is what she is; they really work like magic.

She tries not to think about those escapes. It's harder some days than others.

 _Dum spiro, spero._

It's Latin. Bizzy made her and Archer take lessons since the fourth grade. She said it'd be worthwhile for their future when in fact, as she found out later, it was just a means to keep them busy after school and away from infiltrating her zen.

 _While I breathe, I hope._

 _Dum spiro, spero._

With every breath she takes, she's hoping. She can only hope.

 _How often has she been confused with day and night?_

Sometimes she gets too lost in her own darkness that she fears she won't ever get out.

She's thinking of a way out of here. A safe way that leaves them unhurt. She's brainstorming. _How can they escape safely?_ She've been trying so hard to come up with a plan that it just always leaves her brain throbbing so viciously.

She can't do it.

She's afraid. She needs to be in control of her life again.

She can't do it. But she trying or is she?

Maybe she ought to wait a little longer and continue hoping that Derek will be the knight in shining armour she knows he is.

He'll burst through the metal door, calling out for her.

 _Addison! Addie! Addie, my love!_

And then, he'll kiss her like it's their first kiss all over again and he'll scoop the both of them into either arms while she tells him she's so happy to see him.

 _You came, Derek. You're really here._

Finally, they'll ride off into the sunset.

She's laughing now. She's pathetic. Her imagination proves how dangerous and delusional she've become.

Also, with a five year old and still no power, she've been reading the same fairytales over and over again. The stupid ones with unrealistic happy endings.

 _What does it even mean to live happily ever after?_

She used to be one of those silly little girls, wishing for a fairy tales wedding, and it was only when she was six that she pieced together her parents wreck of a marriage, when she understood that her dad was more than just giving his secretary a big hug and a kiss that was never like the one he'd give Bizzy. It always involved a lot more than just a peck.

It's all just fucking nauseating. _He's_ nauseating. Her father, her mother, and of course, she, herself. She hates everything and everyone. She hates waking up here. She hates waking up, period. But she has to, that's her only motivation. She has to. She has no reason to. _Nil_. Absolutely none.

She just has to.

She's tired.

She woke up to the sky being grey; looking through their only evidence of the world. Not a surprise or actually, it could very well be damn bright and she wouldn't even know. Every aspect and inch of this dump is grey. The walls. The furniture. The water. Her skin.

"What do you want from me?" she chanted, pummelling on the cemented ground with her balled-up fists. Her bad wrist ached at the pressure but it's okay, just like many other pain. It's all okay. She loves it.

She held onto her wrist firmly before repeating the turmoil all over again. "What do you want from me? What do you want from me?"

 _She's talking to who?_ It's a question directed to her and it's question she has no authority to answer.

"What do you want from me? What do you want from me? What do you want from me? What do you want from me?" Now at the third expulsion, the exhaustion began to kick in - the drumming beat of her pulse on her wrist, clenched fists slowing, her arms are tired, sobs wrecking her chest easing to hiccups that stuttered around the breathless gasp she made for air.

"What do you want from me?..." she uttered the words one last time in a crude whisper, announcing each word after each fist meeting ground. Painfully, she knows the answer. Her tissue thin voice, shy of death, and cruel embarrassing tears courses down her cheeks.

She has nothing to give anymore.

"What did floor do?"

Addison turned around at the sleepy little voice.

She couldn't even manage to cover up the trail of tears that sodden her cheeks. She doesn't need to anyway because Christopher won't ask her why she's crying.

So, she just puffs out a breath and wipe stupid tears with the back of her hand. "I need to hit something." she said. She's hell bound frustrated. "But I don't want to break anything."

"Why not?"

"Actually..." her voice trails off. She's imagining what it'd feel like to bury her hands into a thousand glittering fragments and encrust the morsels in thick flowing scarlet. "Actually I'd love to break everything in this god forsaken room."

It's been over a week and they're down to their last ration.

"Can grandma and grandpa and Uncle Archer come here sometime for real?"

She looked up at him, and for a moment her expression hardened, but not in anger or indignation or even irritation that she has eaten since breakfast; it's almost sundown now and there's a last can of baked beans in the cabinet.

And she's still waiting for him, waiting for the confoundingly loud bark of the door opening, and him - just waiting for his loud scruffs and heavy malapert and it's been ten days now and she hasn't taken her eyes off of the door.

 _He'll come back -_ that's what she tells Christopher. She hopes he will. It's either that or their bodies will eat them alive.

 _He'll come back, Christopher. I'm almost sure he will._

She don't even believe her words.

"I wish they could." she said, "I pray so hard for it every night."

"I don't hear you."

"Just in my head."

Montgomeries don't pray - not ever, just when they need something.

"They're wishing it too." Oh, god, she hope so. "But they don't know where I am."

"You're in _room_ with me!" he bounced in his chair and she grab to hold onto him, so he won't fall.

That'd be a nightmare.

"Yea, but they don't know where room is. They don't know that I'm here with you. They probably think..." They probably think she's dead in the ditch somewhere. "...They don't know about you at all."

He raised his brows and purses his lips, "That's weird. They could look it on Dora's map. I think she can help them and when they come here, I could pop out surprise them."

They'll be surprised alright.

 _Will they love Christopher as much as she loves him? Accept him? And her?_

"They'd love that. They will love you."

* * *

Three years after her disappearance, and just two words, two words that was said to him, just two words and just when he was starting to process, his whole world came crashing down around the invisible bubble that he had caved for himself. And forcefully propelled him into one of the chairs at the station because his legs couldn't hold on any longer.

 _Legally dead._

That means they'll stop looking for her.

She's dead.

 _Legally dead._

The NYPD handles are over three thousand missing person cases every year.

She happened to be one of the over three thousand people.

 _Legally dead._

But there is no body.

There was one.

Not hers, though.

He had thought it would be all over, that they would stop blaming each other for what had happened - to her, to them - that he would be able to live normally, when Mark was gone.

But it still was a tournament for him. A race, a competition where he needed to win and needed to know that he did in fact win because she had married him.

His best friend disappeared, sold his practice and everything he owned and blended with the air. He disappeared.

Not literally, of course.

Not like Addison.

He didn't say where he was heading to and Derek didn't ask because he was too proud to, because he knew if he did - ask, that is, he'd beg him to stay, not to leave.

The loud and never asked question of who Addison loved more was alas over. But not quite because unlike Mark, it lingered like a whistle in the wind.

 _Why was he even surprised?_

It's so Mark to just leave like that.

The question will stay questioned, will remain unanswered but it will never be over. That's for sure. Even if he comes back, it will take a million years, a thousand four-leaf clovers, a hundred leprechauns, a pot of gold at the end of ten rainbows and one unicorn before he'll even allow the answer to be said.

Mark ended loving then marrying and now, running off with a redhead that made brows quirk and mouths twist and eyes to narrow in scrutiny and voices to announce their discontent.

 _Seriously. What the hell's wrong with you?_

But, again, why was he even surprised?

It's so like Mark to go for a reminder of the woman they both loved. They couldn't save Addison, couldn't help her, so they're trying to redeem and pawn whatever they're lacking off of them.

He, Meredith, and Mark, the woman he spontaneously married in Vegas.

But another question arose; who loved Addison more?

They had mended their friendship for her, wrapped a cursory bandage over what should be lifetime of silence, love and want by committing to strangers and dismiss the one forgotten, but never really because she's somehow so close that they both can still taste Chanel, see her bright smile and feel her touch at any given moment.

He does now. _Again_. For years, he didn't, it faded, but now, it's back. She's back. It's like she's calling for him, talking to him, watching him.

He doesn't know.

He loved them. He loves them.

He can feel her sometimes. He can feel her... _her spirit, if you will_ \- walking across tiles, fingers tapping across walls, cold wind brushing across his skin. That's her. All those signs, it must be her. Never leaving a trail or clue. He wonders if Meredith can feel her too. But she mustn't. She doesn't know Addison.

 _Should she? Should he tell her that there was an Addison in his life?_

That he thinks of her... _only_ _occasionally_. That he dreams of her too.

Not every day or once a week or even once a month.

Sometimes, occasionally, but not often.

 _Not often enough._

But those dreams - no, they're nightmares, unpleasant dreams, so damaging that he'd wake in cold sweat, tears, more pain, sorrow and hatred.

He'd have those fucking dreams and not be able to look at Meredith all morning and all day for he'd feel like he's cheating on her - dreaming about another woman when wrapped in her embrace.

He was once the man, the only man for her, the only one to know the meaning to her very descriptive pause, silence and glare. He was the only man who could read her because she was an open book for him and that should've only and only been for him.

 _Only him._

But then, he became the man that allowed her to slip, who didn't and should've tried harder to help her when she was too weak to see what's best for her, who thought asking favours from his best friend to have dinners and keep his wife less lonely at their home while he stayed at the hospital for just a little while, sometimes - most of the time, a lot longer than he should.

And that backfired to a huge slap across the face, a smack when his best friend became her lover.

But not really, it was really just that one time.

He believes her. He believed her.

 _What difference does it make now?_

Mark loved her too; tirelessly and greedily, maybe sometimes even relentlessly but always _always_ continually.

He loved her in secret even after. But it never was a secret to him because it was always there, in his eyes. It's the same he sees in the mirror. The twinkle of fervour and guilt, he saw it until the day he disappeared.

And he, he loved her because it's what's written in the stars, his kismet and he's sure it's hers too. He loved her because he knew no other way, because there's no other reason to other than the fact that he loves her.

He loved her till she died. He loves beyond that too.

Sometimes love just doesn't work the way we hoped it would, and it's not because of fate or destiny or divine intervention or even Mark Sloan.

It's just what it is.

She was his and only his till the day she died. And the only thing he regret the most is not telling her that sooner and just realising it when it was already too late.

She was his and only his when she became his girlfriend in their first year. She too was his and only his when he moved in to her apartment in SoHo. It only made sense that he did because the shabby one bedroom he shared with Mark and his surprise guests hardly even had room for two occupants. And soon enough, she became a Shepherd and never looked back...until she kind of did go back to her Montgomery roots.

She had told him that she wished she was born a Shepherd, born into a loving home with unbinding warmth, love and security.

"What's the point of having money when we're all fucking miserable?"

He don't know the answer to that. He wished he does because now, he gets it.

"I'm sorry, Addie."

He just wanted to be the son-in-law of the year. _Like he even had competition_. He just wanted Bizzy to like him again. _Like she ever_ _even cared_. He just really thought it would be a great idea to spend Thanksgiving with her parents for a change because they haven't since getting married.

He just wanted to be a good husband.

Maybe being a good husband would've been listening to her when she said she didn't want to go back there.

He had actually forgotten how cold it can get in the Montgomery Mansion. It's not the temperature that he's talking about - it's actually pleasantly warm, oddly enough, throughout the large marbled halls and mosaic ceilings - it's the cold and silent people living in the equally silent mansion.

 _Her parents_.

She was blinking down at her plate, still seated at Bizzy's long French dinning table, so reluctant to let her tears fall, and he reached out from under to hold her free hand, to tell her not to let Bizzy get to her again.

He remembered Addison telling him that her mother had taught her the Forbes way of discipline and self-control. She was doing that thing, that damn unhealthy thing of blinking tears away, making it fucking disappear without a trace.

All she ever wanted was to be loved - loved and accepted by her parents, the people who brought her to life, the people who supposedly just wanted what's best for her. It only makes sense to love and nurture what you've created, right?

But they're the people who just couldn't seem to give her what she was always craving for.

 _Couldn't they have seen it in her eyes?_

He could. He always saw the longing, the element that was missing whenever she was in the presence of her parents. It's always there actually, hovering in her eyes. It's just much more prominent and upsetting whenever she's with her parents.

Her eyes wandered, collecting in hot stings at the waterline as she speared one pea and one carrot at a time. It was an awfully awkward and silent dinner, just the four of them. Archer was wise enough to decline the invitation.

They should've too. He should've listened to his wife.

Her plate was like the parted Red Sea - potatoes, gravy and the slices of turkey and string beans ( _that would've had happened either way, she hates string beans_.) were pushed to one side while she twirled her fork through the half of what's Bizzy approved for not gaining weight.

"Addie, c'mon..."

 _Don't listen to Bizzy._

He doesn't understand why, even at twenty-six and already a brilliant doctor to many, she still gets persecuted by her very very opinionated mother. And he definitely doesn't get why she ever listened and let Bizzy's bullshit get to her and get to her to the point where an eating disorder blossomed.

"Addison," they shouldn't have come, he's sorry that they did, "Let's go, okay?"

She was searching, always searching for approval and he never understood why she was so desperate for her parents to give her that. Just like her childhood pictures in the photo albums, pictures hidden in 4"x6" pockets and only dug up in special occasions.

He'd only ever seen them a handful of times.

Young and innocent with fiery bright hair and cute speckles sprinkled all about. Nothing like her brother. That was the first thought that popped in his head when they were going through each other's pictures. And he had felt so awful - oh so awful to just be sitting there, smiling and laughing along, all the while thinking if she noticed the indifference too, wondering how Bizzy could do this to her children.

But nobody ever seemed to notice or perhaps, they did and like all Montgomery secrets, it's ignored and buried, protected from getting into unwanted hands.

He would never bring it up, even now that it doesn't really matter.

Archer loved his sister. Though it's quite evident that they're not each other's number one fan, he actually is when it comes to Addison since they most of the time both had the same want for her.

She's a Shepherd. She never wanted to be a Montgomery anyway.

And he watched Addison's face fall flat as Bizzy commented once again that her thighs were looking a little less toned than normal, that her cheekbones weren't as hollow, that her nose appears a little wider, and he can't help but wish that she won't visit the bathroom, because he knows what happens in there.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Bizzy, let the girl eat. It's Thanksgiving, would you rather she starve herself and watch us eat?" her father had finally came to her defence.

 _But she already was. How can they not see that?_

He had only noticed her frail body fairly recent and when he told her she didn't need to be on a diet, she only shrugged and played her weight loss as a consequence of working stressful hours. But it was more than that because there's a pretty significant physical difference between just losing a couple of pounds in two months and losing twenty pounds in two months. Her wrists were thin and weak, and her elbows were much more prominent. Her bones looked bigger, wanting to pierce through the thin flesh.

"What's wrong with you?" he spat at Bizzy, throwing his napkin onto his plate and pushed back the heavy chair harshly that screeched and bounced through the enormity.

She was already curled to her side on her bed when he got her room. Her knees tucked close to her chest, facing away from him. And at that moment, he thought she looked so much smaller, so much so that she was almost unrecognisable.

She was strong, too strong sometimes and that would always scare him.

She hid, always hiding behind that mask.

Yes, she's strong, but never in the face of her mother. She never could stand up for her self when it comes to her mother.

"Addison." he sighed, sitting down on the bed beside her and rested a hand on her hip. It's less than what he's used to hold at night. It's less and he don't think she even noticed. And when she rolled over to face him, her cheeks were a long trail of tears.

Blinking just wasn't enough today.

"Addie." he cupped her cheeks, running his thumb gently across her cheekbone. He can never understand Bizzy's motive for continuously crushing her fragile esteem.

She gripped him with both hands, the blanket that was hugging her racking shoulders slid; he reached for it when he felt her shiver. She's always cold lately. And when she inhaled and exhaled deeply, he knows she had done it because he could smell the stinging and unmistakable mouthwash on her breath.

It was dark in her room and wet and he just held her tight, absorbing her tears and shedding a few of his own too.

"Can we go home now?"

He smoothed her hair carefully away from her face, "Of course." he said and tried to shush, but it was years worth of pent up criticism flowing in torrents, "Addie...you need to listen to me," he doesn't want this to get so out of hand, "You're beautiful and I'm not just saying that because I love everything about you...It's the truth, Addie."

Her eyes collected in more shine and her lips trembled and he pressed his thumb to her lips to stop it's quivers. "You believe me, right?"

She sobbed again and he just held her tight, shuddering at the feel of all the solid against him.

And for years, he never could get her to believe him.

He exited the taxi and head for the short three flight of steps to his home. The air is heavy when he entered, heavy with dusty dry heat and silence, the light insufficient to read by beyond the lunar pools cast by random lamps and windows.

He stuffed his hand into his pocket and raised his eyebrows when he reached the couch, the sight of her forced him to a sudden stop.

Stretched out on the couch, one arm akimbo, her features slack; she slumbers. Pants with pressed pleats and a fine wool sweater that hugs her every curve.

He watches her.

The rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, the pale ivory of her throat, so soft and vulnerable, how perilously her arm dangles, close to falling and yet never does. She is bewitching.

The phone rings from the kitchen somewhere behind him and he holds his breath. The trill continues unabated and he attempted to answer the phone to stop the sound, to let sleeping beauty slumber on.

A cough and a curse word, the scrape of a chair when he accidentally kicked it was loud enough to arouse the dead, and her eyelashes flicker. He is caught in the doorway, captured in the blink of an eye when she stirs.

"D—Derek?" she mumbled, slowly coming to. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, self-conscious, and then feels for the hem of her sweater, fussing over her appearance before she's even fully awake.

He wonders what to take from this.

He decides to infer that she still at some level cared to look flawless when she wakes, not that he ever noticed that she didn't. This deduction pleased him beyond measure, pleased him more than any insight he might be able to bring m. Pleases him enough to tender an apology for a crime he hasn't even committed.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

She sat up, wiggling backwards to rest against the arm of the sofa. "You didn't," she smiled, slightly bashful. "Not unless you've turned into a telephone."

He breaks into a grin. "Uh, yeah. No." He shakes his head. "Can't claim that particular skill. Not yet."

"Yet, huh? So it's on your bucket list?" She grins back at him, still warm and soft with sleep and she's stretching suddenly. The stretch is expansive, lasts longer than he expects and reveals more than she means to, if her pink cheeks and the strip of skin exposed at her waist is anything to go by. And that's when he's hit with a huge dose of reality. He can't move forward with Meredith if he don't tell her about Addison. And he does wants to move forward, that is. He thinks so. It's what's right, for them and for him.

He doesn't want to keep lying.

"There's something important I need to tell you, Meredith..."

It's only time that he does.

* * *

She's shivering under pitch blackness and underneath thick blankets - nose runny, toes frozen under socks, teeth chattering noisily - while Christopher snores lightly away without a care in the world. He definitely didn't get the Forbes-Montgomery curse of being light sleepers.

Derek would always tease her for sleeping with her eyes half open. In the literal sense of sleeping with eyes half open, not the metaphorical sense of being frazzled and paranoid all the time.

 _Why is he even watching her sleep?_

He'd use to do that all the time - watch her sleep. Sometimes she'd wake to him tracing patterns on her back and other times to soft blue waves that said, _I love you_. And once she's fully awake, she'd say she found it creepy and weird, but really, she secretly - or perhaps not so secretly, because she knows that he knows she just loves it too.

She loves the attention.

He even took a picture one night to prove exactly that - it's just typical arrogant Derek, proving he's right and she's so wrong.

Of course, she didn't want to believe that even while she's asleep, she still manages to look stupid. He said it was one of her adorable quirks, but isn't that a sleep disorder? If she recalls correctly. Anyway, she never stuck around long enough to have it checked out.

 _Always be weary of your surroundings at all times. You never know what's going to hit you._

It was an eye roller then, but that's probably the best advice her mother could have given, and that's definitely the one advice she shouldn't have taken in so lightly.

But really, it sounded so stupid back then.

 _Why should she need to be weary all the time?_

Bizzy can be so annoyingly wise and insightful at times.

It's just that it's too awfully cold tonight for her brain to switch off and drift off to sleep.

 _Isn't it April already? Why the heck does it feel like Alaska in here?_

It must be just her because Christopher is as warm as the sun.

She placed a kiss on top of his head.

A _click_ and it's buzzing suddenly; something changed after she blinked. And she quickly jerked to cover her eyes with her arms as a bright light assaulted her overly sensitive pupils.

 _Is this what going into the light feels like?_

 _Is she in heaven?_

 _Why? Has God forgiven her for all her sins?_

 _Is she dead?_

She mustn't be because Christopher is still warm beside her.

Blinking to slowly get accustom to her surprise, she can finally see the colour of her son's long hair again. _Dark brown_. And she can actually see the tragic furnitures laying innocently around this dump. And the single light bulb that's hanging on the ceiling. And she can also hear the rustling coming from behind the metal door - _yes, it's that quiet_ \- followed by a sound that she can't ever forget even if she give up her life trying to.

That sound.

Blaring and brittle all at once. But it's so very unbearably loud to her. Almost like it's an announcement on a bullhorn.

It's a sound that stills her to her core, that causes her pupils to dilate wide with fear, that curdles deep in the pit of her stomach, that seizes her breath, and she swear up and down that her heart had just skipped a beat. Or maybe even two or three.

It's a sound - no, it's two distinctive sounds she dreads the most.

 _Beep beep..._

One is definitely different from the other. At least to her it is. High then low. Or low then high. She can't tell anymore.

 _Beep beep..._

It may sound innocent and harmless, but actually, it isn't. It's like iron nails dragging over a bed of rocks.

It may sound like it wouldn't scare someone half to death, but it definitely can. It's a ghost. Only worse because ghosts aren't even real.

 _Beep beep..._

She had heard it. _Right?_ It's not just a fragment of her fucking imagination anymore. _Right?_ _She's not dreaming, is she?_ It's not just because of her pounding headache. _Right?_

She thinks she had heard it.

That darn sound.

She knows she heard it actually. And she has to hurry. It's signalling her to be quick on her feet and carry Christopher into the cupboard. Because it's only a matter of seconds. Not minutes. _Seconds_. Five, at most.

And that's exactly what she did.

Taking two leaps towards the cupboard with a heavily sleeping Christopher in her arms. Then, somehow, by whatever means of magic there is, she managed to open the cupboard doors with her damp and quivering hand. And placed him gently and quickly into confinement with still a second to spare and she took a deep calming breath.

A slow release of exhale because she shouldn't be scared.

She'll be fine. She has to trick her brain into thinking that.

She has to believe she'll be just that, fine, or else she'll never be.

 _You'll be okay, Addison. You can face him. You wanted him to come back. Your wish came true._

But just not the one wish she truly and absolutely wants.

 _He's_ here. And it's not just a mirage of hope. Because she just heard the metal door open with a teasing swish. Because she can smell _it_ \- the grass and dirt.

 _No!_

No, she can taste the dirt on the tip of her tongue. It's earthy. She's craving it. _Dirt_. And that thought is making her stomach queasy but she doesn't care.

If only she could grab Christopher right now and push past _him_ , ambush _him_... _No! It's too dangerous._

She can't do it. She can't ever risk Christopher's life like that.

It's the outside and she'll take all the opportunity she can get for a whiff. She'll inhale and will never want to exhale ever again. But that's not possible, she's only human.

It's the outside. It's the same. It's familiar. _God! That an understatement_. It's as she remembers.

It hasn't changed at all. Not one bit. She doesn't know why but she really thought it would.

 _How?_

She's not sure. It's not logical. It's not even possible. But then again, nothing made sense to her anymore.

But it's okay because this is a confirmation that the outside is waiting for her. _Yeah, it misses her too._ And the cold wind slashing through her marrows for just that tiny fraction of a second is basically a sign.

 _They're going to get out of here soon._

Standing a few steps from the door is her captor whose entire existence would always riddle her with anxiety, but not today. Yea, not today, because the expression she's wearing is one of relief. And maybe even gratitude and joy.

She's happy to see _him_.

Because it's been eleven days. Eleven days of uncertainty, of not knowing if _he's_ even ever going to come back. Eleven days of hoping with no clear grounds for hope. It's been eleven days and it's the longest she haven't seen _him_ in all the years she've been stuck in here.

She's just so grateful that _he_ hasn't forgotten about them and just then, her frown turned right-side up. She's smiling.

But it's eleven days without _him_ , she ought to be relieved. _Right?_ It's eleven days of solace. _Nope_. Not at all. If anything, _his_ absence brought her far more frustration and anxiety because all she could think of were the _what_ _ifs_.

 _What if he doesn't come back at all?_

 _What if they starve to death?_

 _What if she dies first?_

She needs _him_. She's the last person who should admit to that, but it's the truth. _Really_. They can't live without _him_.

 _Who's going to bring them food and all the things they need?_

 _He's_ back. She's happy. She hates _him_. She won't be stubborn. She'll just apologise. She'll do whatever _he_ wants. She'll be compliant. She won't provoke _him_. She can feed Christopher again. She'll do anything to keep that a constant.

"I'm sorry." Addison whispered, slowly putting one bare foot in front of the other. "I'm so so sorry." she nodded, convincing herself that she really truly is, and curled her fingers to a fist to keep them from visibly shaking.

 _He's_ watching her, observing her like a hawk. Brows lined straight in a question. Not arched because _he_ can't do that. _He's_ standing just a foot away, barely even, with two brown paper bags in either arms and it's making her smile wider and eyes water simultaneously.

She had really convinced herself that they were going to starve to death. Starvation; it's not a pleasant feeling. She knows it, experienced it. She didn't like the feeling. It's been six years since. And it's not like riding a bike. It never gets easier and it's always forgetten.

They can't live without _him_. _No_. She can. It's all for Christopher. _Always_. And as a mother, she has to make sacrifices, no matter how unruly and recusant she feels about them.

"I'm so really sorry. Okay? I'm so thankful for you. We're here. We're alive and safe...And it's all because of you. You shelter us, provide for us. And...we need. I need you, okay?"

She hopes he'll fall for her act.

She has to be a natural at this; she's in her element after all. _Lying_. _Acting_. Lying is acting. Both elements overlapping somewhere in the middle.

 _Manipulating. Deceiving. Bluffing._

"Please, please forgive me..." she choked, and the words tastes bitter on her tongue.

She wavered all second thoughts and brought her hand up to caress _his_ cheek. She has to be convincing because _he_ still looks borderline reluctant to believe her. And so, she gently moved her fingers around the back of _his_ neck and to the healing purple from where she had strike _him_ the other day.

"Sorry." she rub the area on _his_ jaw lightly with her thumb. It's just like performing a physical at the hospital. Gentle and practiced fingers, nice and slow movements.

And when that didn't work, she kissed a trail upwards on _his_ jawline. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." she said softly, desperately grabbing _his_ face with both of her hands to make _him_ believe her.

"Forgive me?"

There it is.

The slightest flicker in _his_ green eyes and it's just what she needed. _He_ nodded.

 _Okay. That was easy._

Dropping the bags to the ground, _he_ moved to grip her neck with both of _his_ hands and she can't exactly resist the gasp and flinch that has now become second nature to her.

She shut her eyes and whimpered a little when _his_ cold as ice hands skimmed the marks on her neck and cheek.

 _He's_ not particularly rough today. Just alright.

It's a caress. It's gentle. It's nice. It's warm and welcoming. And she can't help but devour this change.

 _He's_ soft for once. Gone are _his_ manhandling ruggedness and _he's_ treating her like an actual human being. She feels like one again. She's not an object that _he_ owns anymore.

"Look what _you_ made me do."

And, of course, it's her fault.

That the closest to an apology she'll ever get from _him_ and she'll settle for that. She's not going to ask _him_ to say the words, _l'm sorry._

She would if it wasn't _him_.

But today, _his_ tone is calm, friendly even, and _his_ hands are exactly that too. And she willed herself to power through and obey because she knows herself so well; she never makes things easy for herself. So, all she has to do is follow along and not open her mouth to anything destructive.

 _He's_ good to her right now and she intends to stay on _his_ good side for how ever long possible. Because she's tired of punches and slaps and shoves and just basically a human punching bag. She doesn't want any of that anymore.

Their faces are just too close together now, so close that she can literally count _his_ freckles and see _his_ every exhale. They tastes like beer and cigarettes.

Their intimacy is making her uncomfortable and nauseous altogether, she wants to resign herself from _his_ grip but that's much easier said than done.

"It's okay." she gave _him_ a reassuring smile, "It was my fault anyway." And with that she took half a step back and attempted to pull herself away from _his_ hands because she knows if she doesn't soon, _he's_ going to do _it_ and she's going to have to scrub herself raw again.

But she's too lately or perhaps too slow since _he's_ looking at her with hollow eyes too familiar and _he's_ burning with passion and lust and something that looked to be the tiniest tinge of sorrow but before she could even analyse or think too much about that, _he_ took her face in _his_ hands too roughly, and clamped their mouths together with ample force.

She wants to cry because she doesn't want this, but it's not like she has any other choice. She has to endure this and let _him_ finish and respond to make this end quicker. She learned that a long time ago. So, she pretended like she does want this and pressed her lips harder against _his_ with a moan that's leaving her hot with embarrassment.

 _He_ wants her. She has to reciprocate.

It's just sex. It's not a big deal.

And before she can so much as put her arms around _him_ , _he's_ backing her onto the 'kitchen' table. Hard and knocking wind right out of her lungs when her back slammed onto the hard surface. That's going to leave a nasty bruise and amongst others places too.

Her hands are reaching for support, grabbing and clawing for traction anywhere on the smooth plane, but she can't hold onto anything because she's desperate to get a breath in since _he's_ crushed against her ribcage and for the thousandth time in her life she feels trapped.

 _NO!_

She can't scream it, so she's screaming as loud as she can in her head and it actually helps. It actually makes this much more bearable.

 _He's_ kissing her neck, moving far too quickly and roughly downwards for anything to be considered gentle now - sucking and biting - no, it's like he's gnawing on the translucent skin of her collarbones and she's biting her lip to contain her sharp cries.

Just when she thought she's being treated like a human again, she not. She keeps forgetting that she's not one anymore. She's an object, an animal and essentially, deemed worthless.

 _He_ misses her, and she has to gag on the bile that's threatening to spill before she can say that she does too.

A thought came to mind and she wondered if _he_ ever feels remorseful for what _he's_ done to her and even contemplated on asking _him_ that but thought otherwise because it's much safer to keep her mouth shut.

So, she bit down her questions on _his_ tongue and dragged her teeth along as she pulled away from the kiss.

Derek liked it when she did that to him.

So, she snuck her cold and trembling hands up his shirt, over the taunt muscles on _his_ abdomen.

Derek liked that too.

So, when she moved downwards to tease the waistband of _his_ jeans, she was assaulted with even more recollections.

 _He_ groaned, pushing _his_ hips forward, telling her to venture further south and she dragged a single fingertip along the edge of _his_ pants, dipping just underneath the waistband and when _his_ breathing grew ragged, she let her hand drop down below and all the way down.

 _He_ cursed, swore, spat derogatory towards her. She accepted all those terms because they cannot be more true.

She's all that.

She can do this again.

It's just sex.

It's not like she was ever a virgin when this all started, so it doesn't really matter anyway. It wouldn't ever matter.

* * *

When I wake, the air is not all icy anymore and I can't see my breathing which can only mean that the power is now uncut. It's all warm and cozy now. Like before. Everything is back to normal. Or maybe Ma woke up with superpowers and she made the power come back.

So, I get up, excited to see if Ma has superpowers - I hope she's Flash, so she won't be so slow anymore - but no, it's the same Ma. _My Ma._ She's sitting on couch, just staring at TV. I look, there's nothing on. It's all black and I can see my reflection and I wonder why she likes to watch that better. There's lots to watch on TV but she always prefers the quiet. When the power was cut, we did that a lot - the quiet and it was so boring. My eyes feels so heavy so quickly and I fall asleep all the time. I don't know why just don't turn TV on; it's much more funnier. You can laugh and smile and even cry. Once there was a movie on TV and it was about a dog who kept waiting and waiting in the train station for his master to return from work, but he never. It was so sad because dog and master both died, and Ma was so sad too.

I should ask Ma if I can watch TV all day long because I've missed so many days and can't catch up if I don't. I miss my friends. Room was so lonely without them.

"Good morning, lamp." I say softly and pat her on her back very gently. She's fragile, Ma says to be very careful with her - we won't get a new one.

On the table is a new box of cereal and a bundle bananas. _Yippee!_ _He_ must have come back yesterday in the night when I was sleeping. I didn't hear _him_ at all and even Ma. They must be so quiet. No talking at all and only going straight to bed, just like me.

Ma is still staring at TV when I jump out of bed. And that's when I see that there's pasta too and sausages and oranges. But Ma is not eating any of it.

I think she's still sick.

She's always feeling like she wants to vomit and she puts her palms to her head. I tell her to take the painkillers to feel much better; she says she can't anymore.

I don't ask why but I want to know.

On my tippy toes, I go closer to Ma, slowly, so I can _boo_ her. But then, I see she's not staring at TV, she's actually staring at Marina the Plant.

Marina the Plant was so beautiful before when she still had her flowers. They were colourful like all the colours in the rainbow and I water her every morning because that's her food.

Sometimes I forget, mostly I don't.

I think _he_ gave it to Ma.

There's only three leaves on the stem. "No!" I shout when Ma touches Marina the Plant.

Ma kind of jumped and turned around, "She was already dead."

"You killed her." I cry when Marina the Plant just break apart into pieces.

Ma shakes her head. "Alive things bend, Christopher. I think it was the cold. It made her go all frozen inside."

I'm not listening to Ma because I'm trying to fit her stem back together. It's all in pieces and Ma is trying to explain to me. _No!_ I don't want to listen. She needs some tape.

But then I remember we don't have any left. Ma put the last bit on the Alice in Wonderland book. _Stupid Ma!_ I run over and pull book out from shelf. I find the broken page and rip the bits of tape off.

Ma just watches me.

I'm pressing the tape on Marina the Plant but it just slips off and she's back to being all in pieces.

"I'm so sorry." Ma tells me.

"Make her be alive again."

She's a doctor. I remember Ma telling me that. Doctors make people alive again and fix things and not sick anymore.

 _Is there a doctor for plants?_

"I would, if I could, Christopher. I'm sorry."

There's tears in my eyes and it's making everything blurry that I can't see. I want to ask Ma why not but I'm crying too much to even say anything.

 _Why can't she fix Marina?_

Ma waits till I stop my crying, then she gently wipes my face with her sleeve. "All living things are born to die. Even us. That's just how life is."

I know she's wrong.

But I don't respond anything to Ma because her face is all flat and her eyes are so dark. So not like Ma. I think maybe _he_ hurt Ma again that's why she's talking all weird things, but I don't see any new marks.

"I guess we better put her in the trash."

"No." I shake my head and ask if we can flush her down the toilet.

"That would block the pipes." Ma said she doesn't want another flooding like last year. It was really disgusting, and the water and all the _ew_ was high up to my legs. I don't want one another flooding too.

"We can break her up in tiny pieces."

I kiss each leaf goodbye before flushing them. Then, I break apart the stem from the roots and whisper, "Goodbye, Marina the Plant."

Maybe in the sea she'll stick all back together again. And grow up bigger and beautiful with more colourful flowers.

The sea is real and the water in sea and ocean and rivers don't float around in everywhere because of gravity.

It's all real for real in outside, everything in outside is real because I saw the airplane in the blue between the clouds the other day. Ma and me can't go out because we don't know the secret code. Only _he_ does.

We do codes sometimes but we can never get the right combination.

When I was a little boy, I thought like a little kid, but now I'm five, I know everything.

Ma said she was a little girl too. Before, in outside and she was with her Ma and Pa and brother, living in a big big house. I try my hardest to imagine Ma as a little girl, but it's so hard to because Ma can't be little. It's not possible.

 _Did Ma look like me when she was five?_

 _Did she have long hair too?_

 _If Ma has a mother and a father, how come I only have a mother? Shouldn't I have a father too?_

We have a nice bath right after breakfast. And breakfast was eggs and toast. _Delicious! My favourite!_ And also, Ma was eating, so that's a very good news.

The water is all warm and steamy. _Yum!_ We fill bath so high that it almost makes a flood. Ma lies back in tub and goes nearly to sleep so many times. She always gets bored so fast we take baths. Many times she fall asleep so deep that I can't even wake her. But today I wake her quickly to wash my hair so she won't be bored and I do hers too.

We do laundry too because we don't like to waste. But then there's long hairs on the sheets so we have to pick them off one by one. We have a race to see who gets more out quicker.

The cartoons are over already once we're done cleaning up room. I want to see my friends, maybe tomorrow then. The real human children are colouring eggs for the Easter bunny. I look at each different kid and I'm so amazed because they all look so different from Ma and me.

I have to remember that they are all real for real.

 _You're all real. Just like Ma and me._

"Archer and I used to...When we were kids. Umm, the Easter bunny brought chocolate eggs at the night and hid them all around our garden, under bushes and in holes in the trees, even in the fountain."

 _My has a fountain in her home in outside!_

I look at Ma and she is smiling. So, Easter bunny is really real too. I don't think the Easter bunny knows where room is, anyway we don't have a bushes and trees, they're all in outside.

Today is a pretty happy day because of the warm air and all the food and the uncut power, but Ma's not happy.

I think she miss plant more than me.

Ma gets tired of just sitting and watching TV, so she turns TV off and said, "Let's get active." I suggest PE and we pretend we're hiking on the mountain trail. We walk hand-in-hand and call out what we can see.

"Look, Ma, a waterfall!"

After a minute, I say, "A bear!"

"Wow!" Ma turn to where my finger was pointing and put her hand to her mouth in surprise.

"Your turn."

"Oh, look," says Ma," A ladybird."

We have to crouch down to actually see it because she's so tiny. I even squint to see. "Look a giant bulldozer knocking down skyscraper."

"Look," she says, "a pod of pelicans."

"A ghost!" I scream.

"Christopher!" That makes her smile for only a second. It's better than never ever.

Then we march faster and sing songs.

Once we're all tired, we play _Don't Move_. Ma is really good at that. It's a very simple game, all we have to do is lie down real still.

 _Easy right?_

But I always always lose. Today, I forgot that we're playing and scratch my nose. So, Ma wins.

"Ma, can we play _Simon says_?"

Ma shakes her head, not looking at me. "Sorry. I'm going back to bed for a bit, okay."

I can still see her eyes though, they're shiny. So I don't argue.

She's not much fun today.

I make more towers with toilet paper rolls, it's not the same when making it with Ma. Maybe I can just show her but her eyes are closed. She must be sleeping. Maybe I can tell her to name them later because she named all the others.

I'll just wait.

I go to the wall where I scribbled something when I was just a little baby. We're not allowed to draw on any of the furnitures because _he_ will get very mad and Ma get scared whenever he does. So, I don't anymore. I touch the lines with my fingers and wonder what I was saying in my head when I did that.

I can't remember. Maybe I wasn't thinking any, I was only a baby.

Now whenever we're cleaning Ma taps the scribble and say, "Look, we have to live with that forever."

I stick my head out and Ma's eyes open. They're wide and huge like mine. We have the same eyes. "What are you doing?" I ask her.

"Just thinking."

 _Just thinking_. I can think and do all the interesting stuff all at the same time. _Why can't she?_

She gets up and goes to kitchen. It's past twelve so I think she's making lunch. "Can you make chicken nuggets, Ma?"

I don't think she heard me because I see her opening a box of macaroni and cheese.

It's okay. I like it too. But today, Ma doesn't because the smell is making her wanting to vomit. Just eating a banana for Ma.

I talk and talk to her but she doesn't seem to want to talk back. She just nod and smile and say, "That's sounds great, Christopher." Even though it doesn't. She's not really listening actually.

When I'm done eating, Ma washes up dishes real slow. I wait for her to be finished so she can play with me but she doesn't want to play, she sits in chair with her elbows on table, and rest her face in her palms.

"What are you doing?"

"Still thinking." After a minute she looks back at me and asks, "What's in the pillowcase?

"It's my backpack."

She just looks, not saying a word.

"I've tied two corners of it around my neck. It's for going in outside when we get rescued."

I've put in our toothbrushes, truck and remote and an underwear for me and one for Ma and socks and a t-shirt for us and four apples for if we get hungry.

"Is there water?"

Ma nods, "Oceans, rivers, lakes..."

"No. But for drinking. Is there faucets?"

"I guess so."

I'm glad I don't have to bring a bottle of water because my backpack is pretty heavy now. I have to hold the ends at my neck so it doesn't squish me when talking.

Ma is rubbing her palms all over her face. "I used to dream about being rescued." she says softly, "I wrote notes and hid them in the trash bag. But nobody ever found them."

"You should have sent them down toilet."

Ma is so silly sometimes.

"And when we scream nobody can hear us." oh, this doesn't sound like Ma yesterday. She sounds like she's so far away and that can only mean she's sad again. "I was flashing the flashlight half the night and then thought...why? Why am I even wasting my time? I thought, 'nobody is even looking. They all sleeping too.'."

"But-"

"Nobody is going to rescue us, Christopher."

I don't say anything for a while and so does Ma. I'm just breathing heavy. "You don't know everything there is."

Her face is the strangest I ever see. It's like she has no face at all. I'd rather she was gone for the day then not like Ma at all.

I get all my books and start reading read Jack and the Beanstalk. I'm so lost in the story that I didn't even realise Ma was sitting on ground with me now.

"Christopher, listen. Are you listening?" she swallows hard and plays with my hair.

I climb onto Ma's lap, "I'm always listening."

"We have to get out of here."

I stare at her and looking around room. _Here? Get out of room?_

Ma's face changes. She smiles, but not really a happy one. "No more being scared, okay? And we have to do it all by ourselves. We have to rescue us."

But she said we are like the people in a book. Stuck. _How do people in a book escape from it?_

"We need to figure out a plan."

Her voice is all high and I exchange a look with Ma. She's scared. But she said not to be. I don't understand.

"Like what?"

"I don't know, do I?" Ma laughs, "I've been trying to find one for seven years."

"We could smash down the walls. But we don't have a bulldozer...We could...blow up door." I think.

That would be super cool to see. It's real for real because I see it done in TV all the time. We can do it too.

"With what?"

"The cat did it on Tom and Jerry."

"It's great that you're brainstorming." Ma giggles and kiss my head, "But we need a plan that'll actually work."

"A really really big explosion then."

"If it's really big then it'll blow us up too."

I hadn't thought of that. I do another brainstorming, thinking really _really_ hard. "Oh, Ma, we could wait till he comes back to room one night and we could say, _'oh look at this yummy cake we made for you. Have a big slice of our cake.'_ And actually it'll be poison."

Ma shakes her head, "Okay. But that still doesn't get the door open."

I think so hard it hurts.

"Any other ideas?" Ma looks down at her hands, then at me.

"You said no to all of them."

"I'm sorry. Sorry. Your ideas were wonderful." she says warmly, smiling a little bit.

"What about you?"

"I don't know...I..." she licks her lips. "I keep obsessing about the moment the door opens...if we timed it exactly right for that split second when...we could...rush past him?"

"Oh, yea!" I jump around, "That's a cool idea."

"If you could slip out while I go for his eyes...No-" Ma closes her eyes and shakes her head. "No way. That's too dangerous."

"Yes way."

"He'll grab you, Christopher. He'll grab you before you go halfway up the yard and-"

She stops talking.

"We could trick him." I tell her.

"Like what?" she breathes out heavily like she's tired.

"Like maybe like when he tricked you to think that he was hurt and you helped him and he put you in his truck."

Ma lets out her breath and rolls her eyes, "I know you're trying to help but maybe you could hush for a while now, so I can do the thinking."

But we were thinking and thinking so good. We were thinking hard together. Brainstorming. It was so much fun.

I get up and go to refrigerator to get some juice.

"Christopher!" Ma shouts so loud that she scared me and I drop the jug in my hand, spilling all the juice onto the floor. Her eyes are all huge and she's talking extra extra fast. "What you said was actually a brilliant idea!...What if we pretend you're sick?"

* * *

 ** _Thanks for reading, guys! Part 1 of 3 of their great escape is done. Two more parts...I think. I hope. I'll try my best to update soon._**

 ** _What do you think of Christopher? Do you feel for him? Do you think Derek will tell Meredith? How will she react? Is Addison pregnant?_**

 ** _Let me know what you think. I'd love to know._**

 ** _REVIEW!_**

 _ **Oh and please check out my new story, it's called** A How to Know Guide for Derek Shepherd: Ways to know if your significant other and best friend are into each other. **Also,** Addek's Anatomy **\- it's a oneshots kind of story.**_

 _ **MERRY CHRISTMAS!**_


	7. Chapter 7 - 2,587 days

**Chapter 7 - 2,587 days**

 _2,587 days. . ._

Happiness is a temporary high. Like drugs. Oh, exactly like drugs. Same chemical releases. Same input. Same output. Same endgame.

 _A temporary endgame._

To think it's a state we can exist in forever is to think it's realistic to be high forever, with no drastic coming down.

And that, of course, isn't the case. It's never the case. Remember, happiness is a temporary high. Happiness lasts for only a limited time.

 _After all, what goes up must always come down, right?_

She used to strive to feel endless heaps of glorious happiness. She was raised by television, which entails to witnessing unrealistically happily ever afters, to believe that steady, relentless happiness is something that is wildly attainable. Which is why she feels so secretly seeped in shame for not being capable of achieving it.

We are made to believe that one day we will wake up deliriously happy, and _BOOM_ , that will be it. The golden day will have finally arrived, and we will be alleviated from all our uneasiness once and for all.

No more tears. No more curses and spells. No more hiding away from evil stepmothers and even, jealous ones.

Her golden day came but the goldenness didn't last - like most so called happy endings.

Just generally, all that is considered bad, or something close to that, or anything that is the opposite of good will forever be cashed in.

No returns. No exchanges.

And from that moment forward, we will be enveloped in the cashmere, cozy embrace of happiness for the rest of our existence.

We dream of the mesmerising moment in which we can confidently proclaim to our loved ones, with lips curled into smug smiles, that we're finally happy now.

Oh, it's all beautiful. Wonderful. Magical. _Attainable_. She wanted it. Had it. Lived it. Oh, how desperately she begs on her knees to attain that again.

She's a fool falling for faux happy endings again.

 _But if you think about it, it's such a fucking fairy tale, isn't it?_

To think it's realistic to live in the perpetual throes of endless happiness is a dangerous expectation bestowed upon us by society.

It's a myth. It's no worse than the surplus of Disney movies we watched with innocent doe eyes as untainted, impressionable, hopeful little kids.

Those sensationalised animated films we viewed over and over inadvertently brainwashed us into believing that one day, a glimmering romantic lead on a horse would magically appear and wrap us up in massive, teeming arms of steel, rescuing us from the winter of our discontent.

It's no coincidence that the fairy tale, the romantic comedy, the love story always ends at the same point in time.

 _That final scene is always the wedding, right? We are never privy to what happens after the gold-gilded, virgin-white wedding, are we?_

Our eyes never bear witness to Snow White having postpartum depression after birthing her first child. We never fucking see Cinderella in a fetal position racked with acute anxiety after Prince Charming caught her in the throes with his over-charismatic best friend.

We never see anything beyond the passionate locking of lips between the two outrageously attractive romantic entities earnestly making their flowery vows beneath the petal-adorned alter.

The credits roll right as the two romantic leads are basking in their happiest moment. And the image of their momentary bliss lingers in our brains.

But it is because of those unattainable bliss that we forget a happy moment is just _a_ happy moment. And moments are fleeting. Because there immense to be happy about and immense ways to be happy. Like the chemicals in the brain that influences happiness; dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin, and endorphins.

Each plays a different role in happiness. _And_ _guess what?_ They are all triggered by gamified experiences.

Dopamine is what we normally think of as the happiness drug. However, that's a big misconception. Dopamine is actually involved more with anticipation than the actual "happiness" feeling. It's more of a striving emotion.

Oxytocin is the neurochemical that allows us to become social creatures. It makes us feel empathy which helps us feel close and bonded to others when it's released.

If you're in a good mood, you've got serotonin to thank. And if you're in a bad mood, you've got serotonin to blame. It's a regulator.

Endorphins are responsible for masking pain or discomfort, which explains their association with the "fight or flight" response. When it comes to designing happiness, endorphins help you "power through." Endorphins are pusher; they push you farther and harder to work towards a distant goal.

And today, her goal doesn't seem all that distant anymore.

 _Optimism_. That's Derek's trait that she's now borrowing because she needs that - optimism. To be positive and optimistic. Looking at the bright side of things. This might just sound preposterous but, perhaps optimism may, in fact, be her thing from now on.

 _When have the odds ever been in her favour?_

Maybe now.

It's reachable and plausible now and she is _happy_.

 _God, she is._ Because just to think, by the end of today, they'll be home and out of here and she'll be in her brownstone in New York, wrapped in loving arms and welcome backs and tears and smiles and laughter and joy, and that's making her want to jump up and down with joy.

She'll be home with her family and friends. She'll be home with her things and believe it or not, she's even excited to see Bizzy.

She has to believe that she will do all of those things tonight.

 _Thinking is believing._

Christopher will pretend to be sick, that's the plan. _Their plan_. He'll be really really sick and they need to see a doctor.

All things are possible until they are proved impossible and even then, the impossible may only be so if you don't persist and keep going.

 _Right?_

This is possible. She really thinks this time this will work.

Christopher looked hesitantly at her. She can see that he's pondering their plan in his head. He's thinking and thinking and her heart is bursting with bliss as she go over their plan in her head again. "Like when _he_ tricked you?"

"Exactly. When _he_ comes in, I could tell _him_ that you're really _really_ sick."

After the _beep_ _beep_ , that's when she'll tell _him_. _Christopher is so sick. You have to take him to the hospital._ She'll sound panicked and frantic. She'll make good use of her four years in high school theatre. And she can only hope _he_ won't pick a fight with her tonight.

"What kind of sick?" he asked.

"I don't know." Something viral or bacterial or fungal. _Which?_ It can't really be something from the outside since _he_ hasn't been sick lately. _Can it?_ Perhaps, the food. _Food poisoning?_ _He_ wouldn't care as much with that. She needs something much _much_ serious.

She can't think. Her synapses are about to burst. Her neurotransmitters are short-circuiting - she can't think. There's so much to think about and she's all but thinking of all of them all at the same time. "I don't know." she slapped her head, feeling defeated. "I'm so dumb."

"No, you're not, Ma." he said and rub where she had smacked herself. "I can do a big cough."

He let out a heavy cough and she smiled. It sounds pretend. _He_ won't even flinch. But still, she's thankful for Christopher because he just always knows how to make her feel better.

This is her element - medicine - and it just occurred to her that she might not have an element anymore. _Medicine_. But this is her field, her thing - one that she had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars and hours on. She doesn't know why she can't exactly remember what she'd learned and practiced and studied all those sleepless nights, all those many years ago.

She _is_ a doctor. Correction - she _was_ a doctor. Now, she's just a dumb prisoner in this equally dumb box. She's a commoner.

But she's not going to give up. _Ever_. She don't quit. They're so _so_ close, that she can already feel the sun rays on her skin. The vitamin D. The heat. The blazing sun. Her thoughts are making her drool. She's not going to let anything stop her now. "A really bad fever, so you can't talk or wake up properly...maybe I'll tell _him_ you've got pneumonia? _He_ cut the power so long that you developed a nasty cold and that turned to pneumonia?"

She don't know. She'll just talk in medicine to throw him off guard. She'll make it sound so serious that _he'll_ see no other choice but to take Christopher to the hospital.

 _Yes, she can do this._

"Why I can't talk?"

"It'll make the pretending easier if you don't." she's feeling all hyped and giddy inside but also, so scared and skeptical about this plan. Their plan. She wants to smile but her eyes aren't wanting to.

 _What if he sees right through their act?_

 _What if Christopher messes up?_

 _He_ could kill them or worse - take Christopher away from her.

 _There's no time for second guessing, Addison. You've been in here long enough._

"I'll tell _him_ to take you in _his_ truck to the hospital, so the doctors can give you the right medicine."

"Me, riding in the truck?"

She nodded. "Yup. To the hospital."

Christopher's eyes brighten at the thought of riding in a truck. He can't believe it. He's going to the outside. But then, the medical programme he watched the other night came to mind and suddenly, he's reluctant to go to the hospital to be fake sick. "I don't want to be cut open." he frowned.

"Oh, sweetie, no. The doctors won't do anything to you because there won't actually be anything wrong with you, remember?" she stroked his hair "It's just a trick for our Great Escape. _He_ will carry you into the hospital, and the first doctor you see, or nurse, whatever, you shout, _'Help!'_ "

" _You_ can shout it."

She stayed quiet for a long while. If only she could. If only _he'd_ let her come along. _If only...if only..._ But she knows _him_ , a hell of a lot more than she's comfortable in knowing and she knows that _he_ wouldn't even bat an eye on the suggestion.

 _If only he's stupid enough._

She can't look at Christopher. "Ma?" _Don't look, Addison. He'll just break your heart._ She's not making any contact with the innocent blues that's searching for her to say something.

Sighing, she stared into her palms, "I won't be at the hospital." she said quietly.

"Where will you be?"

"Right here. In Room." It's tears of pain she's shedding now and with his palms, he helped clear them away.

"I have a better idea. You could pretend sick too, like that time we both had diarrhoea at the same time, then _he'd_ bring both of us in _his_ truck."

She chewed on her bottom lip. If only it'd be that easy. " _He_ won't buy it. I know it'll be really scary to go on your own, but I'll be talking to you in your head every minute, I promise. Remember when Alice was falling down in the hole, she was talking to Dinah, her cat, in her head all the time?"

He shook his head. "I don't like this plan."

"Christopher-"

"It's a bad idea." he insisted.

It's a scary idea but it's their only idea.

"Actually-"

"I'm not going in outside without you!" he shouted, throwing himself face first onto the flimsy mattress and thrashing his limbs everywhere.

"Christo-"

"No way! No way! No way!" his screams were muffled as he buried a pillow over his head but it's clear as sunshine that he's not up for this plan.

 _What did she say about happiness?_

 _Something about it being temporary?_

"Okay, okay, just calm down. Forget it."

"Really?" he turned over, half of his face still hiding behind the pillow.

"Yeah, there's no point trying this if you're not ready."

She hates it that she can't just force him to do this for her. He has to want to do it. For himself, at the very least. She's not thrilled of the fact that she's having to give up so soon.

But she's Addison Montgomery. She don't exactly quit.

* * *

"Ma, I don't know how to do." Christopher whispered, confused at the math problem his mother is making him do, but most of all he's afraid that she's going to yell at him again.

She isn't in a good mood and he doesn't know why.

Yell because he still doesn't know how to do the question. It's difficult. She doesn't think so and that's because she already had learnt it a long time ago when she was five. He just started learning long division but his mother thinks he ought to understand the concept by now.

He doesn't like it when she yells at him. She can be mean when she's angry.

 _Why does she yell at him and never at_ him?

She's always so quiet and nice to _him_ even whenever _he_ isn't. And that's a majority of when _he's_ here. _He_ shouts, she doesn't. _He_ screams, she doesn't. _He_ hits, she doesn't. _He_ breaks things, she doesn't. But she always says she wants to. But she always says she wants to shout and scream at _him_ , hit and break all of _his_ bones - of course, she'd never say those when _he's_ around.

 _Why don't she ever just shout and scream and hit and break things too?_

 _Is it because she's scared?_

Sometimes _he_ is somewhat nice to her, though. Sometimes, _ehh_ , not so much. She likes it better when _he's_ in the mood, he can tell. She smiles more. She talks more. She even laugh a little. He knows it because he too likes it better when his mother is in the mood.

When _he_ comes and they kiss on the lips ( _he doesn't look because it's only for grownups to see_ ), that's a nice thing _he_ does to her. That's what people who are in love do.

Maybe they're in love.

But... _nah_ , she always says she hates _him_. So he don't know.

Maybe _he_ is in love and she's not.

 _He_ had also bought her a necklace last year, that's something nice. And she always wears it. But she doesn't want to. _Fucking Walmart crap_ , she calls it. She's always saying she has to wear it when he don't think she really ever does.

If she doesn't want to wear it, then don't. It's not like _he's_ forcing her to. He's tired of always hearing his mother complain all the time.

She does that a lot - complain.

That damn necklace - it's a lasso around her neck. Though it's cheap and filmy, it's an anchor weighing her whole body down. Squeezing, choking her, seizing her air supply. She hates it. She absolutely detests it.

If she had a choice, she'd have thrown it in the trash a long time ago.

She wants her wedding ring back. She doesn't know what he'd done to it.

They've been at the same exact page for so long and _he_ knows she is about to lose it and that's why he's only whispering. Her jaws are clunching tight together and she let out two long sighs, messaging the bridge of her nose before opening bloodshot eyes to him.

"Christopher..." she clenched through her teeth.

Her patience is threading on thin ice today. She's barely even threading, to be honest. She wants to shout because she knows they won't be progressing to the next question any time soon.

 _Why can't he like maths like she does?_

She never was one with the large amount of patience amongst friends and maybe that's why she's wrapped in this predicament. Her lack of patience had led her to act on impulsion one night - for just a fraction of that night, actually. It can't even be considered as a night because it all but ended before any of them can even comprehend what they were doing to each other.

Patience is a virtue means nothing to her because she's a Montgomery and Montgomeries aren't one for zen and tolerance. They strive on bossing people around and having things go according to them and she's no different.

She's mad and he thinks he knows why.

"We've gone through this about a thousand times, Christopher! It's four o'clock now, and we started at two and look..." she stopped to point at the lack of answered questions on his paper, "...look, you haven't even finished a single question." she took a deep breath and tried to calm the irritation in her voice.

"It's not even four. It's _three-thirty-two_."

Well, at least he can tell time. Archer couldn't until he was in high school.

"Okay." she sighed. She can do this again. They can.

And she began explaining how division is all about grouping objects equally and she even tried using apples to make him understand better.

"Okay, got it? So, what does twelve divided by three equals to?"

"I don't know." Tears of frustration welled in his eyes.

She sighed and rubbed her temples, trying to drive away the migraine swelling in her brain.

When Christopher was just a few days old, she would spend the entire day curled on the couch crying and ignoring his wails for her.

He had actually spent his first few months wailing on top of his tiny lungs and she has to admit, it was the most irritating sound she'd ever heard.

And it had even gotten to the point where his high pitched screams would ring frantically in her head when he wasn't even crying. She'd wake to calm him down, only to find him peacefully asleep.

Then, it'd be her turn to wail.

"Yes, you do." Each word she gritted through clenched teeth was a struggle. _Don't yell at him. Don't cry in front of him. Just stay calm._ "Christopher, we just did this one five minutes ago. Twelve divided by three is four, remember?"

"But why?"

"What why? I just showed you with the apples. Weren't you listening?...Look, I don't know how else to explain this to you. You just have to know it. You have to listen."

"I was listening. I just don't know why? Why is it four?" Christopher whined.

Now, she's fighting the urge to stuff her ears, the desperate need to prevent her son's voice from entering her head and chewing away at her sanity - what's left of it, really.

"Because that's just how it works."

"No, it's not!"

"Don't start." The shred of authority she tried to inject into her voice did little to mask the fact that she was pleading with him, begging him not to throw another tantrum.

 _Please, Christopher. I have a headache because of you. I haven't slept in two days. I can't handle you right now. Tomorrow you can scream and cry all you want, as much as you want, but I just can't deal with you right now._

She doesn't say it out loud. She wants to. She needs to. But she doesn't want to hurt his feelings.

"Why don't you colour...or something?" she said as tried to shake away the migraine he had given her, "Draw a picture, maybe...I need to lie down."

She poured a glass of water, ignored his pleas for her to stay and colour with him, and down them - along with her son's begging with two pills that she hope would end the pounding in her head.

Perhaps it won't. But at least she can try to sleep.

It's only a few steps to the other side of the room - a bedroom that's basically naked. Void of any privacy and walls. She flopped with a huff onto the bed and curled to her side in a fetal position to see her son climbing on top of a chair so he can reach for the crayons that's on the top shelf.

And as she watched him stretch on his tippy toes, she can't help the thought of Christopher falling and hurting himself from crossing her mind.

She's embarrassed.

 _But wouldn't that just be ideal for their plan?_

 _He'd_ definitely take _Christopher_ to the hospital, then. And they'd be out of here once and for all.

She found herself sighing melancholily when he didn't exactly trip and topple the way she'd hoped.

It's the worst possible thought she can possibly be thinking of but since she's a sadist, it's only natural of her.

She's still watching him, his tongue sticking out as he drew or, maybe, colour. He seemed to be in his element. Like an artist would, hard at work.

The bed squeaked when she turn to face the wall. She's hurt enough. She doesn't want to further break her heart by looking at her baby and watching her inadequacy.

She wants to get out of here.

Just then the bed dipped a little with his weight but she didn't turn around.

"Ma?" he quietly called and she mumbled for him to tell her what he wants.

"Look at my drawing."

This time, she _has_ to turn around. She can't hurt him. "Whoa! It's beautiful, baby." she said, sitting upright and looking closely at the picture in hand.

It's of them, she thinks.

He climbed onto her lap, enthusiastically wanting to explain the drawing to her. "It's all of us - me, you, grandma, grandpa and uncle Acher."

 _Oh..._

 _Why does he have to do this to her with his innocence?_

 _Is he purposefully punishing her?_

She can't just give up on their plan right now, she has to try to convince him again.

"Christopher," she whispered into his ear, "Do you remember the movie The Great Escape? We watched it on TV a long time ago. You still remember?"

He nodded.

 _Good._

"Remember, how the prisoners crawled through the dark tunnel to escape?...One at a time."

"Yeah." he nodded.

"That's how we'll do it. Me and you. When you're ready." she said softly, warily threading through his hair.

 _One at a time_. It's making her cringe to even think about leaving him alone in the outside with _him_. She never said she liked their plan. _Never_. In fact she hates it just as much as he does.

It's their only plan though.

Scratching his head, he looked around, confused. "What tunnel?" he asked.

" _Like_ the tunnel, not an actual one. What I'm saying is, the prisoners had to be really brave and go one at a time."

He shook his head.

"It's the only possible plan." she said with her eyes too stinging for her to not stop blinking. "Christopher, you're my brave Prince Charming. You'll go to the hospital first, then you'll come back with the police-"

"Will they arrest me?"

"No, darling, they'll help. You'll bring them here to rescue me and we'll be together again. We'll always be together."

He looked up at her, eyes so huge and shiny with tears, "I can't rescue," he whimpered, "I'm only five."

"But you have superpowers, remember?" she don't think she sounds as genuine as she wants him to believe. "You're the only one who can do this for _us_. Will you?"

"Okay."

* * *

Ma is all happy now. But I'm not. I don't tell her, she'll only shout.

 _One at a time_ , Ma says, and then, we'll be together again. Like always. I don't like our plan because what if we don't. _What if we don't be together again?_

My tummy is hurting because I'm so scared to go outside with _him_. I tell Ma but I don't think she even heard me.

She's thinking and thinking of our plan.

Our plan has lots of problems. Like how will I bring the police back to room or what if _he_ don't take me to the hospital or what if I don't do plan or what if i can't shout, _'help!'_ in the hospital.

 _What if I get lost?_ Ma says outside is very big.

"Ma, the police won't know the secret code to get you out." I tell her.

"They'll think of something."

"What something?"

She rubs her eye. They're all red. "I don't know...a blowtorch?"

"What's-?"

"It's a tool that has a hot flame that could burn right through the door."

"We could make one," I tell her, jumping up and down. Ma will like my idea. I think it will really _really_ work and that way, we don't have to go one at a time. We can go in the outside _together_. "We could, we could stick your painkiller bottles on top of each other with tape and then, put them on stove with the power on till it's on fire, and-"

"And burn ourselves to death." says Ma not so friendlily, crossing her arms together.

She doesn't like my plan.

"But-"

"Christopher, this is not a game. Let's go over the plan again..."

I remember all the parts but I keep forgetting the right order it all goes in.

"Look, it's like on Dora," says Ma, "To go to her destination, she goes to three places. Right? She goes to the first one and then the second place, so she can get to the third place. For us, it's Truck, Hospital, Police. Repeat after me."

"Truck, Hospital, Police."

"Or maybe it's five steps, actually." she talks to herself, "Sick, Truck, Hospital, Police, Save Ma." she waits for me to repeat after her.

"Truck-" I say.

"No, sick."

"Sorry. Sick," I'm afraid I might be wrong so I say slowly, "Hospital-no, sorry, Ma, I mean, Truck. Sick, Truck, Hospital, Save Ma."

"No. You forgot Police." she says. She's more like talking with her teeth. She only does that when she's annoyed. "Count on your fingers, Christopher. Sick, Truck, Hospital, Police, Save Ma."

We do it over and over and over. Then, we make a map of it on paper with pictures, like on Dora.

The one who is sick is me - Christopher. My eyes are closed and my tongue all hanging out. Then, there's a blue pickup truck. After that, it's of a person in a long white coat that means hospital. Next, is a police car with a flashing siren. And finally, it's of Ma waving and smiling because she's all finally free and happy. I add the blowtorch all fiery like a dragon because that's how the police will get Ma out of room.

My head is tired but Ma says we have to practice the being sick part, because that's the most important part of our plan.

"You see, Christopher, if _he_ doesn't believe us, the other parts will not happen. Okay. I got an idea, I'm going to make your forehead really hot and let _him_ touch it .

"No!" I shout.

"It's okay, honey, I won't burn you-"

But she doesn't understand me. "I don't want _him_ touching me."

"Oh, baby," Ma kisses my cheek. "Just this one time, okay? I promise. And I'll be right by your side."

I keep shaking my head. But she's not caring.

"Yeah. Yeah, this could really work." she says, "Maybe you could lie against the radiator." she kneels down and puts her hand under the bed, next to the wall, but then she frowns, looking sadly at me. "It's not hot enough. Maybe, umm, maybe a bag of really hot water on your forehead right before _he_ comes?"

 _Really hot water on my forehead?_ I will burn. _Ouch!_ Ma's head is going crazy.

"...You'll be in bed, and when we hear the door going, _beep beep_ , I'll hide the bag of water."

"Where?"

"It doesn't matter." Ma waves her hand.

"Yes. It does matter." I say a little louder but not shouting. Only a little so, Ma can stop talking so fast.

She looks up at me. Her eyes are a weird colour and they're so huge too. "You're right. You're right. We have to figure out all the details so nothing can go wrong." she takes a deep breath and wipes her face with her hands. "Okay. So, I'll hide the bag of water under the bed, yeah? Then, when _he_ feels your forehead, it'll be super hot. Will we try that?"

"With the bag of hot water?"

"No, just get into bed for now and practice being weak and limp, like when we play _'Don't Move'_."

I'm not very good at that, Ma is. She'll be excellent. My mouth hangs open like a dead person and Ma pretends to be _him_ , with a really deep voice. She puts her hand over my eyebrows and says all deep and low, "Wow, that's _really_ hot."

I giggle.

"Christopher."

"Sorry." I lie extra _extra_ still.

We practice a lot more, then I'm so sick of being pretend-sick, Ma lets me stop.

She says I did good. But I don't know because she wasn't happy and smiling.

Dinner is boiled broccoli and rice. It's not my favourite because I don't like broccoli. But I guess broccoli is much better than string beans.

Ma's playing with her food - she always tells me not too but she always does. She's hardly eating any. I think just a bite. I'm worried about her.

"So, do you remember the plan?" she asks.

I nod.

"Tell me."

I swallow my food before speaking. "Sick, Truck, Hospital, Police, Save Ma."

"This is great. This is just great, Christopher."

* * *

"I don't wanna go to bed, Ma." Christopher mumbled and she can see him physically struggling to keep his eyes open as she read to him.

He attempted to rub his eyes, but she quickly pushed down at his hands before he could irritate them. "Don't fight it, baby." she whispered, gently smoothing out his tangled locks with her fingers. But he was adamant on not falling asleep too quickly tonight, determined in finishing the book his mother have been reading to him and so he kept his eyes glued at the ceiling above, not blinking at all.

It's what Ma would do whenever _he's_ here.

She yawned and so did he.

She wants sleep - that's an understatement because she _needs_ to sleep. And desperately too. But sleep isn't for her. For seven years it hasn't been.

She sleeps though. Only because the percocet had made her so awfully drowsy. And she would succumb, just how she would succumb to _him_.

She would always try her best to stay wide awake because every time she close her eyes, bad things happen in her head.

Even blinking is a risk.

And when she wakes from a nightmare - it can't exactly be called that because she wakes up to an even scarier one every single time - she'd be able to feel the sweat drenching her skin, the throbbing of her own eyes, the ringing screams vibrating in her head and ears, and her fingers would curl into fists, nails digging into her palms.

It'd go on for hours - all emotions still heightened, she'd be on edge throughout the day. Until nightfall, then it's another vicious cycle.

Torturous fear in her gut, churning her stomach in tense cramps until _he_ comes. And when _he_ does, fear would engulf all of her consciences, knocking all other thoughts aside. _He_ would overwhelm her body, making her drastically exhausted. However, most of all, fear can also make her calm and that is what scares her the most.

Because that's not the whole point of fear.

They're perched together on the sofa, letting each other's heart tranquil the other. His is calm and steady - a harmonious rhythm - while hers is jumbled and unsynchronised - sprinting away from her chest.

It's almost nine o'clock but she doesn't say that to Christopher. She doesn't need to, she thinks he knows it too.

Well, he should by now.

 _He's_ coming. And it's no surprise.

It's comical, really. One wouldn't have ever thought two unattractive beings would be able to produce a child so perfect, so beautiful, so good, so happy, so nice, so caring, so innocent, and so...

 _So lovely._

So gorgeous like him.

He's all perfect. Head to toe and everywhere in between. He's her perfect.

Hers and only hers.

She brought Christopher's warm palms to her lips, and lay motionless for a moment, gathering in his sweet scent and most importantly, her thoughts. "Tomorrow night. That's when we'll do _it._ "

"Do what tomorrow?"

The question questioned from his brows and the innocence in his voice hung deathly above her head. He untangled from a bed of limbs and sat up straight with eyes that she cannot meet.

He's all wide awake now - that's for sure.

"Our Great Escape."

"Why is it tomorrow?"

She sighed and massaged her aching wrist, "I don't want to wait any longer. After _he_ cut the power-"

"But _he_ switched it back on last night." he whined and crossed his arms around his chest. His brows knitted slightly.

Addison looked apologetically at her son. Sure, she understands his reluctancy. It's a lot of pressure and responsibility to put on a five year old and she never would if they weren't under such predicament.

If she had life her way, well, Christopher wouldn't exist, really. So, she's not sure if she actually would've liked life her way without Christopher in it.

He'd be kindergarten - the smartest kid in class. He'd be making a gazillion friends. Actually, with his kindness and loving nature, he'd be making more than a gazillion. He'd be playing soccer - everyone would want him in their team.

He'd have everything he ever wished for and more. She'd give him everything in this world. He'd talk to other people other than her.

She'd make him happy.

She can't do any of that from in here.

"Yeah. But after eleven days, Christopher. We had to skip meals and go hungry. I don't ever want you to feel like that again. And _Marina_ died from the cold...Who knows what _he'll_ do to us tomorrow?"

Whatever _he_ wants. _He'll_ steal Christopher away from her. And as much as she doesn't want to think about it, she only does every single day - if _he_ takes her son, she can't do anything about it, literally. She can't look for him. She can't call the police. She can't do what a mother is supposed to do. All she can do is panic and cry and scream.

If there was another way out, one that wouldn't compromise Christopher's well-being, one that doesn't mean he'll go outside all alone and without her, she'd obviously opt for that one in a heartbeat. But there just isn't.

" _He_ looks human, but there's nothing inside."

" _He's_ a robot?" she watched as his eyes gleam at the prospect.

"No. Much _much_ worse."

Robots are predisposed and designed to be detached and unemotional. But _he's_ on another level of inhumane. Because biological, and as nauseating as it is for her to admit, she can't deny the fact that _he's_ a person too and people aren't supposed to be doing what _he's_ doing to them - caging them up like animals, degradation, using her for sex, making them live half a life.

It's not right. It's inhumane. It's the sad truth of how monstrous some people are in this world.

"One time, there was this robot on Bob the Builder-" but before she could allow him to tell her his unamusing story, she interrupted him, "You know your heart, Christopher?"

Nodding, he placed his palm to the left side of his chest.

"Yes. But, no, your heart. Like your feelings. Empathy. Love. And happy. You know, when you're sad or scared or jealous, stuff like that?"

He nodded.

"Well, _he_ hasn't got one."

He gasped. "What does _he_ have instead?"

She shrugged.

She honestly don't know. Because she honestly do not understand and cannot ever comprehend how _he_ can keep living _his_ life as normal when _he_ has them imprisoned in _his_ backyard. She honestly don't understand how _he_ woke up one day with the great idea of swiping a person off from the face of the earth.

She do not get it. She do not understand _his_ thought process. She do not understand _his_ motive and _his_ purpose and what _he_ aims to achieve.

"Nothing."

"Ma," he appraised cautiously and she managed to get herself to look in his eyes, "Let's do escape another night."

She sighed. "Okay." As disappointed as she is, she just can't say no to his request, especially with the face he's giving her.

" _Okay_?"

"Yeah." she smiled and scratched her forehead. "I'm sorry, Christopher, I know I'm rushing you. I've had a long time to think this through, but it's all new to you." she let out a chuckle so she could trick her brain into keeping the tears at bay. She doesn't want to cry in front of her son.

Maybe later.

He nod and nodded.

"I guess another couple of days can't make much difference. So long as I don't let _him_ pick another fight." she said, pinching his chin upward so he'd face her. "Maybe in a couple of days?"

" _Maybe when I'm six_."

She knows the smile she had on vanished soon after Christopher's innocent suggestion. She knows because she can feel the corners of her lips quiver to a frown. She knows because a chill had ran up her spine and it's suddenly so quiet in here. _Maybe when I'm six. Her whole world is spinning too, dizzying and she's sure she's going to vomit._

She's wants to cry. _Maybe when I'm six. But she's still mumbling to her brain not to, because she can't._

She can't. She wants to stop crying for once.

 _Maybe when I'm six._

She can't stay here another year.

Now the silence is laying on her skin like a poison. And she's not quite sure if Christopher fully comprehends what this silence means. But he must because he's looking, he's staring and watching her. Like _he_ always does. They're the same anyway. It's the same piercing gaze that makes her want to peel her skin off to shreds. Pick and peel until raw flesh is exposed. So, a new layer of pure and porcelain, sinless and untouched and unharmed skin would hide away all of her evident sins.

 _Maybe when I'm six._

She thinks he's confused as to why she'd become so silent.

The suggestion was a cruelty he inflicted unintentionally, but had he been aware, she knows it wouldn't make an ounce of a difference because he still doesn't get why their escaping out of here is so significant to her, to them.

"Yeah, I'll be ready to trick _him_ and go in outside when I'm six."

From the orbitals in front of her, she watched as tears gather in her eyes, sliding and trickling one by one down her cheeks. The reflection of a sick, ugly figure - that is why she doesn't look at herself, there's nothing remotely nice to look at - crumpled and she drew her legs to her chest, crying into the hard knobs of her knees.

They were never this bony. Bizzy will now be pleased with how toned her legs have become.

 _Would she?_

"Don't." Christopher said, trying to pull her face away from her knees.

 _Why does he have to do this to her?_

"Ma." he wailed, half-leaning onto her so he could pry her head away. She threw her arms up, pushing him off. "Stop it!" she cried, glancing at him briefly before burying her face into her hands.

He looks scared.

 _What about her?_

She only is scared every single day.

Her breathing hitched, and she's crumbling for air. The fours walls in this fucking nightmare are all closing in on her. They're slowly toppling and she's trying to push them back, stop them from caving, narrowing her to an even tinier confinement.

She needs space. She can't breathe. She can't see. She can't stay in here any longer.

Her lungs aren't working, she thinks, and her sobs are scarily racking her body, almost like she's convulsing.

"You said you'd be my superhero." she muttered.

He stood a distance from her. Perhaps unaware of what he ought to do when his mother is having a nervous breakdown. "I don't remember saying that, Ma."

"Don't you want to escape?"

"Yeah." he softly said with a frown, averting any eye contact with her, "Only not really."

"Christopher!"

She's at a loss for words. Their whole plan - her entire plan rests solely on Christopher and everything is not going as she had hoped.

He doesn't want to leave this god forsaken box. He doesn't want to...He wants to stay.

"Let's just stay."

She wants to scream and break everything. She wants to do more than that.

Addison clenched her fists tight, dug what's left of her nails into her palms to keep herself from screaming. Her son is driving her crazy. He and _he_ are always driving her insane.

They make her mental.

They are her nightmare, always demanding more than she can give, always draining her energy and patience, always leeching off of her to the point of no return and past that too.

She has nothing and they still manage to take, take and take.

She give, give and give and she has nothing in return.

"You don't even know what this room is doing to you." her voice shook and she tried to wipe tears away, then, decided to leave them be when her arms flop uselessly at her sides. "You need to have experiences, talk to people, see things, touch things-"

"I do already. I talk to you. I see everything." he jumped and spun across the room excitedly, "See, Ma! I'm touching all the things."

She looked horrified at her tiny human. More than just horrified because she can't believe that that is his counter. Frustrated, she ran a hand over her face. "More things, Christopher, other things. You need more room and go to school. And really run around, make friends, jump and play real sports. There are so many more sports in outside. You need to see the ocean and mountains and real people. Touch the grass and meet your family. I thought you wanted to meet Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Archer, go on the swings at the playground, eat ice cream..."

"No, thanks. I want to stay _here_ with you." he climbed onto her lap and cower into her tummy, wrapping his arms around her waist.

 _Go away._ She wants to pry him off, clawing away at each small finger, like Derek did with hers that day. But she doesn't. _Go away._ Sometimes she wishes he'd go far far away and leave her alone.

But then as soon as that thought blurts into her head, she'd always _always_ immediately feel so guilty. _What kind of a mother is she?_ Christopher must be scared out of his mind. His mother has absolutely lost it, is only barely grasping onto reality. _What must it feel like when you're five years old and your mother tells you that everything you've come to know is a lie? What must it feel like when she tells you have to leave the only home and world you've ever known? What must it feel like to watch your own mother slowly kill herself and disintegrate into a raw bundle of frayed nerves?_

"Well, I don't want to stay here. So, get ready to be ready because we're doing it tomorrow." she said, adamant and he pulled away from her, leaving wet stains across her t-shirt.

"But I said no." Tears fell too quickly, he hitched a breath after every word and she willed herself not to faze, not to look, not to listen because that will only crush her.

It's hard. Too hard. He's her baby.

"I'm your mother." she exhaled, "That means _I_ get to make the decisions here."

"No, you don't. _He_ does."

Even he knows that she has no control of their lives.

It's at times like this she remembers why she never wanted kids.

It's at times like this she wants someone to blame for her fucked up existence.

It's at times like this she blames Derek for everything. Because, really, if it wasn't for all that he has put her through in their marriage - the endless frustration, fear that he was going to leave her because that's what she've ever known, the lonely days and nights and also every second of the day because sometimes, she feels as though he's ignoring her, treating her as if she's a stranger and not his wife - she wouldn't have done what she had done and she wouldn't be here, today.

Nothing and she means nothing is worth this much punishment. _Nothing_. She doesn't deserve this.

But there are also those times where she thought that this is _exactly_ what she deserved.

It's at times like this she hates Derek. He's punishing her.

It's times, like tonight, when her heart broke for Christopher and she hates herself so much she wants to scream. _Couldn't she see that her inadequacy is hurting him too?_

Sometimes her heart broke for Christopher. Other times she hates him more than she should. Never too much, though.

She's dying right before his eyes. _Can't he see that?_

She hates _him_ , him, him and herself too.

It's at times like this the whispers whisper brilliant ideas in her head. But she always _always_ chose to ignore their encouragement because she just can't leave Christopher or even take him with her.

It's Christopher who had kept her alive.

It's at times like this that she's ashamed of even contemplating suicide. She can't imagine leaving anymore.

It's at times like this she knows what's in her heart. She knows it in her bones too that she loves Christopher so much that the thought of leaving him an orphan would tear her to pieces and she'd always want to fall on her knees and beg him for forgiveness.

There were times when she just wanted to give up too.

 _Love_. That's what it really came down to. That's why, no matter how much more easier it would be, she couldn't ever leave Christopher.

She loves him, resents him but ultimately, loves him more.

 _Love trumps all_.

"Listen," she gathered him in her arms and told him to stop crying.

"No!" he whimpered, squirming and flailing around her hold but she just held him tighter in response, snapping at him to be still and listen.

"Christopher," swallowing the lump in her throat, she cupped his cheek that's cold and soaked, "Look at me."

He doesn't. She repeated, more sternly this time and he complied.

"I love you so _so_ much. You know that, right?"

She needs to know that he knows, but he isn't giving her an answer. Just an angry glare. _It's okay._ It's more than okay because fear is also calming reassurance.

"I love you and I just want to give you everything in this world...You deserve everything. Especially a life outside of these walls, Christopher. You deserve to be loved. You deserve to live healthy and happy. You don't understand it now but soon, you will and then, it'll be too late...This room is slowly killing you...You're a good boy...You're _my_ baby and I want to explore outside with you. Don't you want that?"

He shook his head.

Her blood boiled and she can't exactly help that. He's stubborn. Just like her. He's rebelling, pushing her buttons. "What about me, Christopher? Don't you ever stop and think about what I want? I get it...This is all you've ever known. This room. This, this is your entire world. You didn't even know that there's a world outside until a few weeks ago. _Okay_." she croak on a sob. "You'll be fine, but what about me? What about me, Christopher? I don't like it here. So don't do it for yourself. Do it for me! Please! Please, Christopher! Please do this for Ma! Because if I have to stay here one more day, I will _die_. I will die. I, I can't. You have to do this for Ma or I'll never be able to forgive you!"

"For what?" he asked.

" _For making me love you!_ "

Because there was a time she promised herself she never would. _I hate you. You're a monster._ Even the day he was born, she told herself that she wouldn't get too attached. _Don't look at me like that. I shouldn't love you._ Even when she held him in her arms for the very first time, she vowed to never say the words - I love you. _You don't deserve love._

Now, it's all she can ever say.

 _I love you._

* * *

It's the graveyard shift now, and nobody breathing is suppose to be awake at this hour. But she is. And she thinks she's still breathing too.

Her skin is hot and tingling from the scalding bath and this truly is the highlight of all her days and night. Soaking in a tub of distressingly wonderful agony is what she longed for each and every day. It's the only way she can ever feel clean. The disadvantage, though, it's short-lived.

But it's better than never feeling clean.

 _Right?_

The stillness of the air seemed to crunch against her soles as she strut, seemingly looking for something. She doesn't even know why and what she's scavenging for in this dump. It's loud but she's only tiptoeing. Still, it's loud - her footfalls. _No_. It's actually her own heart pounding, she listening to.

 _He_ had came and left and she'd given _him_ what _he_ came for. She must have done her duties right tonight because it was all over before it even began. And for the first time, her prayers were heard.

 _Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you._

She's well past exhaustion now - _oh how she'd kill for just one night of peaceful and dreamless sleep._

Just utter black when she closes her eyes as she let life take her to that place. Nothing to rouse her. Nothing to scream and cry about. Nothing to fear. Just nothing.

She wants to dream _that_.

 _Nothing_

Maybe sleep will make her less mental.

It's okay - _what's one more day in here?_

 _Right?_

Sleep isn't as easy to succumb, though. So she pattered to the cupboard, slowly and quietly and carefully pulled the doors open, mindful of the squeaky rusty hinges, then knelt down beside it. She rested her head on the edge of the opening and watch her son's face as he slept.

 _She's sorry._ She really didn't mean to blow up on him like that and force him to do something he doesn't want.

 _She's sorry._

The familiar lineaments - his bonny features were lank in sleep, her son's cheek was squashed against the pillow where strikes of tears have ponded, his mouth hang open mid-scream and his legs curled at the knees - too Montgomery to fit in there anymore.

He looked like somebody she doesn't know. Somebody whom she doesn't love with every fibre of her heart. Somebody whom she doesn't know everything about. He looked like a... _stranger_ , and as strange as that sounds, it's what comes to mind first.

 _A stranger._

Shamefully, she's looking for infinitesimals that shouldn't really matter. But it does matter. Suddenly, every minuscule seemed to matter because they're taking a big risk tomorrow.

 _A scary one._

She stared at him, trying to find something she recognised in his face, trying to remember - _no_ , memorise how he looked when he smiled or what his laughter might sound like.

She needs to memorise every inch and every crinkle and vein and mole and the birthmark he has on his chest that to her is shaped like a heart.

She needs to master what she already knows.

This is the same baby whose entire existence first wrecked havoc in her - panic and fear, she didn't want him - whose entire existence then sparked a bright light inside of her when it damn well shouldn't, whose heartbeats echoed in her womb - though she can't exactly hear them, of course, she imagined she could - whose flutters had excited her, kicked start her broken heart with each and every movement, even though she told herself it never did.

 _You're not pregnant -_ she had told herself that almost six years ago.

This is the same baby whom she had sheltered for nine months, like a precious secret deep in her body, one that she hid behind jackets so _he_ wouldn't ever lay _his_ filthy eyes on.

It was the middle of the night one night and Christopher was one, _he_ hadn't came by that night or the other three.

She only remembered because they were out of formula and it was the first time she'd felt such gnawing despair to provide for her child. It was panic at a whole new level. A panic so complex and filled with a mountain of butterflies that she was certain that she'd never come down.

It was instinct telling her what to do.

She huddled on the floor by the cupboard, just like today, and stared at the rise and fall of his abdomen as he breathed. And she stayed up all night, watching the continuous contractions of her baby's little chest, making sure that it wouldn't just... _stop_.

Because she isn't so lucky in the whole grand scheme called life and that's definitely something that could happen to her.

"If anything ever happens to you...I'll die."

This is the same baby she knows all and better than anyone else can have ever _ever_ know, the same baby who knew her too in ways no one else ever would.

 _You're not pregnant -_ the last time she tried to convince herself that, she was. _Remember, Addison?_

She should _feel something_ when she look at him.

 _Oh, she does_. She's his mother. That's what she feels. She's his mother. She feels love.

Everything she ever did was only for him. It was only ever for him.

She knelt staring at him until her knees went stiff against the hard floor and every muscle in her back twisted and curd into knots. It is cold in room. She shivered in her thin shirt and barely felt the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

She was colder inside than out.

Again, she looked at Christopher, begging herself to see something she recognised and loved, digging for some hidden morsel. Instead she found sadness, a strangling and mind numbing pain that coiled around her and squeezed until she was too tired to feel anything else.

She found herself choking back sobs and whispering, "I'd give you more time if I could. I swear, I'd wait as long as you need if I thought we were safe. But we're not."

They're doing it tomorrow. He promised her they would. No last minute changing minds this time.

What she did to him was selfish - cornering him like that, screaming and ambushing him with pity. She shouldn't have. She saw no other choice. He didn't get it. He didn't understand. And still doesn't.

He doesn't want to leave.

She got back up to her feet and stumbled back to bed with her son in her arms - the pressure of his weight sliced into her bad wrist and her whole right arm almost - just almost gave out.

Numb - tingling like pins and needles. _Oh_...Now that mustn't be a good sign. She can't exactly feel her arm too.

She laid herself down beside Christopher and gingerly put her arm - the one she can feel - around his body, huddling him closer and buried her face in his hair.

That's another problem to cry about tomorrow because now, she just wants to sleep.

She's tired.

* * *

 _ **Thank you for reading guys! Hope you enjoyed!**_

 _ **Please review and let me know your thoughts. I love hearing what you think! It keeps me motivated! REVIEW!**_

 _ **Oh! In the meantime, please check out my new story, it's called** Find Your Voice._


	8. Chapter 8 - 2,588 days

**Chapter 8 - 2,588 days**

 _2,588 days. . ._

It's wrong, he thinks, that tonight - the first of hopefully calling her his constant one and only and hopefully never having to feel the cold Siberian distance ever again whenever he reaches across to _her_ side, and the first time he really actually feels the curve of her body curl into his side, the press of her face to his collarbone and the weight of her slender frame meeting his - is when he is all but only thinking about his _wife_.

 _Ex-wife! Ex-wife._

It's wrong that tonight as he held her, brushed the mane of her hair back from her face and cradled her cheek in his palm is when he can't truly feel at all because someone is whispering what an asshole he is.

Not was. Not have become. Just simply; _is_.

Because he's an asshole for continuing to lie to Meredith, to want _her_ back when he thinks he doesn't, to dream about his _wife_.

 _Ex-wife, Derek! Ex-wife!_

It looked just like this. It looked too familiar, too similar for him to ignore the parallelism. Well, other than their differences in height and hair complexity, it still looked as though he've already been in this predicament. _Déjà_ _vu_. An over ten years resemblance.

How the feel the curl of her body curling into his side was the same as his _wife's_. _Ex-wife! Oh, he give up trying._ How the press of her face to his collarbone and the weight of her frame meeting his felt exactly like Addison. Like he was holding her instead.

He had to open his eyes and shake away the silent tears to really actually see for himself that it is, in fact, not his _wife_ that he's holding.

 _Meredith_.

And, of course, Addison still is dead.

He remembered the day as interns, over ten years ago, when the bubble that kept his _wife_ anchored and grounded - the one she would withdraw into to feel safe and sound - had burst and very publicly too when her baby died in her arms - the baby whom Richard had had her in charge of.

She wasn't even hiding like she normally would and to say the least, he was more than just surprised. She was very visibly there - exposed, in the hallway at the hospital, trying so desperately to stop and just get a breath in. With one hand clutching tight on the pillar that's hoisting her on two feet and not leaving her to crumble to her knees, while the other was shaking, awkwardly displaced mid-air, perhaps not certain what on earth she was suppose to do with it.

He wasn't there at first. _Of course, he wasn't_. His shift had just ended and he was heading up to the NICU to help her with the baby when a nurse ran up to him.

"Your _fiancée_..." she was hacking on air, out of breath, "She's having a nervous breakdown or something."

"Addison?" he raised a brow.

"You have another fiancée, doctor?"

But it was an honest question, confusion because Addison do not cry. _His Addison do not cry_. His fiancée.

She was, though.

More than just crying, in fact. And if it wasn't for the tears swimming in the confines of her eyes, causing all to blur or that she was so completely lost, she would have been horrified to know that all eyes were only on her.

A dozen pairs were gawking at him, at her, at them as he merely tried to soothe her sobs, attempting to keep her body from collapsing in anguish.

"My baby, Derek...she's dead...Dr. Webber..."

It was her weakness, or rather, her forte that could've and would've made her a brilliant and the most successful surgeon in the country today.

 _Addison._

 _No_. It's Meredith lying next him. He chafed the roof of his mouth with his tongue for almost blurting his _wife's_ name.

 _Ex-wife's._

It's been hours since Meredith appeared on the doorstep of his trailer, rain soaked and wanting more, showing him just how much with the frenzied press of her mouth, the heated stroke of her tongue and surge of her body into his once they finally found their way onto his bed.

As one should have figured by now, he didn't quite confess to Meredith of the Addison he once had in his life. _Honesty is fundamental to all relationships._ Of course, only then, the what-the-heck and eye-roller of tonight wouldn't have been the inevitable.

He couldn't. He couldn't talk about her. He couldn't tell her about Addison. He just couldn't expose her like that. _He couldn't..._ He shouldn't have to. He didn't want to.

Addison shouldn't have put him in a dilemma in the first place.

He doesn't understand why Addison is in his head lately. She wasn't for so long.

But it still leaves the question of why had Meredith showed up at his front door the way she did.

They still have so much to talk about, more than the bits and pieces he'd managed to draw out of her, but right now, on his back after two breathtaking rounds with her, he's still trying to coerce his lungs into a steady in and out rhythm.

He once, many many years ago, had actually spent the entire night - maybe even two or three or more since he probably had accidentally fallen asleep on the first few - documenting _her_ every mole. From its size to its colour to its prominence. He doesn't know what it was but it just made him feel more closer to her with the familiarity of every inch and every second of her flawless dermis.

While Addison found it slightly obscure of the fact that someone was observing, staring, documenting her as she slept, he just couldn't help himself. He's a romantic in the most arcane of ways. Besides he's not just _someone_ , a stranger - stalker - he's _her_ _husband_. He had counted them all, even had memorised them all. But then, towards her end, he remembered wondering about her every tedious details in the middle of the night. He couldn't remember.

He can't remember what her hands feel like anymore.

 _It's always cold, that he remembers._

He didn't have enough time to remember.

He didn't know he should.

Meredith's on her stomach beside him, her arms drawn up beneath her naked chest, watching him for a change, roaming over him with eyes that shine a shade so hollow, one that he's never witnessed before. Derek can't resist extending a hand towards her, tucking a strand of tangled, still drying hair behind her ear, but she catches his wrist before he can recoil, dusts a kiss to his palm that has his heart stuttering and the hope for steady breathing damned.

"Mer." he breathes, the whisper of her name apparently all she needs to lift on her elbows, eradicating the small gap of mattress space between their recovering bodies.

She hesitated only a moment before sinking down against his side, lowering her head to rest atop his bare chest, gliding a hand up his side, caressing the ripple of his ribs before splaying her fingers over his heart.

"I love you." she whisperd, words he's heard at least once tonight, the first time confessed against the flesh of his lips, words that initiated round two.

Derek craned his neck, sweeps his lips to the top of her head and feels her curl in tighter against him, easing one leg over his thigh while he slips an arm around her shoulders. The tension leaks from her frame as he began to toy with the knotted ends of her hair, tracing patterns on her spine and reveling in every second of this newfound intimacy.

"Love you too." he murmurs, using his unoccupied hand to tug the sheet up from their waists.

No pronouns. No subjects.

 _Does it still count?_

He didn't actually say _those_ three words. He said three words, but just not _those_ desired three words.

He doesn't expect either of them to sleep long, if at all, but for now, he succumbs to the warmth of her body, the flush press of her skin over his, and how so very right the gentle pressure of her head feels on his chest.

It's not Addison he's thinking about. He can't even remember what she feels like anymore.

 _Remember?_

* * *

 ** _Seven Years Ago_**

* * *

In the dead of a very early New York morning, he lie awake, unmoving, and just stared at his sleeping wife, counting the many moles she has engraved on her back. Her clear complexity shines bright in the dark; it's all the light he ever needs but now, he doesn't know where to start anymore.

Tonight was the first night in days - maybe it's been a week or two, he can't really remember that he had actually slept on his own bed, on a comfortable memory foam, on crisp and freshly pressed linens, on a bed that he shared with his wife. But somehow, tonight wasn't the same as he had remembered. It feels unfamiliar.

 _Was it him or was it her?_

Something has definitely _changed_. After years of familiarity, his home and his wife, who were once a constant, now seemed too foreign.

 _Addison._

He feels even more dreadful and uncomfortable here, on their $4,000 Zenhaven natural latex memory foam mattress, than he would at the hospital's flimsy one. Even feeling fatigued in his own home than he would at work. If he could, the hospital would be the best fit for him to call home. Sadly, he have had blatantly expressed his discontent one too many times to her and he knew that had to really hurt.

 _Addison._

She took every harsh word and nonsense from him like a champ, not allowing his mere eloquence crush her. She've mastered the art of control. Sometimes he wished that he doesn't know her so well, so well like he knows the back of his hand, since he knows whenever she has _that_ look on her face, the look that held no emotions and the only thing she does is blink, he knows she's wounded.

But of course, one can only take so much, and she too would lash back at him every now and then which almost always end up in one of them leaving. After all, just like him, she's not made of steel.

 _Addison._

The longest they haven't spoken to each other was a little over three weeks. Not an utterance at home and definitely not at work. And if it was of utmost importance for them communicate at the hospital, they always know to be civil. Only at the hospital. But at the end of most of their feuds, it was her who usual end up apologising.

He's stubborn and he knows that.

She's trying, trying to keep them afloat while he has pretty much given up.

 _Addison._

His wife, the beautiful redhead he had met over a decade ago in medical school when they were both still considered to be the _babies_ of PS, their first year. He had just turned twenty-one while she was on her way to be becoming legal.

Their love story; it was simple and sweet. It all started in their campus library where on a blizzard January afternoon, her bright red head of hair and creamy complexion beamed in perfection. And for the first time since starting at Columbia University, he _noticed_ her.

As he watched the gusty winds blow icy particles in all directions, blanketing what was the Hudson River and peeking a glance at her who had caught his eyes, an announcement was made to inform all the studious inhibitors of their ill-fate, that they were to be stranded until further notice. It was for their safety since all roads in, out and throughout the city were deemed unsafe.

It had all seemed so irrational. Perfect even. The question of what the universe had planned for him was answered at that second. Being stranded in a library together with her couldn't have been more of an obvious sign that maybe, just maybe, he ought to talk to her.

 _His_ _fate_ , he convinced himself.

So, he did.

He gathered his things and most importantly, his newfound courage and marched right up to the table where she had her eyes practically glued to her Molecular and Cellular Physiology hardback and MCAT past papers.

"Oh, that's easy." he stated, after reading one of the questions off her paper, "The limbic system includes the limbic lobe as well as the associated subcortical nuclei, located on both sides of the thalamus, immediately beneath the cerebrum. It is associated with emotional responses, which is largely housed in the limbic system, and it has a great deal to do with the formation of memories. The integration of olfactory information with visceral and somatic information as well."

She looked up from the many pages and for the first time, their eyes met in a linger. The annoyance she had felt disappeared.

He can tell by the way she pursed her lips that she's impressed by his level of confidence and nonchalant way of getting to sit with her.

"Is this seat taken?"

She gave him a bright smile.

"It now is."

He extended his right hand to her, flashing a gleaming grin, "Derek. Derek Shepherd."

Her dreamy blues drowned in his and her thin lips curled into a smile and she willing shook his hand, tucking a lock of red behind her ears.

"Addison Montgomery."

 _Then_ \- he knew he was going to marry her.

 _Now_ \- he's not so sure of that decision.

If he was asked on that cold afternoon who'd he want to spend the rest of his life with, he'd say her name in a heartbeat.

If he was asked on that cold afternoon who's the one person that brings him happiness, he'd say her name without even a second to spare.

If he was asked on that cold afternoon where he thinks his marriage will be in eleven years, he'd say on a path to happily ever after, along with their army of children.

But those questions were never asked and those _'answers'_ were never heard and he can now honestly say that _would_ _have_ chosen her all the way.

 _Would have._

Now they're both on polar opposites.

Literally.

She's _hot_ , he's _cold_.

They, Addison-and-Derek, once had similar, if not the same goals - to be the best of the best, to be number one, to be the doctors hospitals run to. It was _that_ that fuelled their passion but now, she has changed. Or maybe it is he who has.

He raised his arm to reach out for her, her bare back that was facing him, but he couldn't. _Unreachable_. He couldn't reach her. They were just too far apart, much like their marriage.

She wanted something he cannot share with her anymore and that was time. He's a man on a dire mission, he needs to focus on his career. It's imperative of him to become Chief in the near future, maybe even the youngest in the business since that doesn't last forever. That doesn't and wouldn't wait for him while his wife, on the other hand, does and would.

 _But why couldn't she just understand that?_

Time is of the essence.

The only way for him to accomplish what he was meant to accomplish on this planet was for him to be at the hospital, to be away from her, to not give her the time she so desperately craves.

They're in constant disagreement to literally anything and everything. They bicker and argue about the most nonsense and mundane of things. That's what they're really known for by all their colleagues and friends. _Everyone_ _knows_. It was obvious. One don't need sight to know where they were headed. Everyone knows where they were marching to, but they don't.

They don't know anything.

They still don't.

She was on her stomach, sleeping when he entered their bedroom. A vanilla scented candle was burning and he drew a breath to blow it out. He had warned Addison about lighting candles at night but, of course, she's just as stubborn as he is.

He didn't came home to fight, though. So he talked himself out of arguing with her.

A medical journal was left on his side of the bed with her glasses alight on top of it. And he placed them on the nightstand.

"What are you doing?" her eyes splintered huge to reveal tired blues as he ran his hands up her legs.

She flipped her entire self to her side, her back facing him and she mumbled something he couldn't quite catch.

"I'm tired, Derek."

"C'mon, Addie." Sighing, "You've been complaining all week, so here I am now." he said and climbed next to her, kissing the angle between her neck and shoulder blades softly because he knows how much she loves that.

She shivered when his hand crept under her t-shirt, which really is his. And he put a finger to her lips when she opened her mouth to speak.

"Okay?" he tucked a strand behind her ear, waiting for her okay. And she huffed, her cold fingers lingered at the curve of his neck. She smiled which in hindsight was anything but a smile.

" _Okay_."

 _What have they done?_

 _What have he done?_

They're relationship has gone from bad to worse. _How can it?_ Beyond the point of no return. He doesn't want it to be the darn truth but it is.

Sex couldn't even save them from their drowning legal union anymore, not like it used to. Sex was once their saviour. Sex was the only way they could reconcile, pretend and forget. Hot sex after a particularly bellicose day or a heated argument was once their thing. Now, not so much.

He tried to enjoy the moment with his wife as much as he willed himself to. To make it last. To make it borderline meaningful and even enjoyable.

He really did.

But it was her fault too. It wasn't like she was doing much. He swore she had even dozed off for a second or two.

She was tired.

 _Remember, Derek?_

As he watched her sleeping, counting the rise and fall of her breaths, he so desperately wants to go back to where the point of their impending doom, failing marriage, began.

 _Was it when he forgot all about their anniversary? And almost all anniversaries after that?_

 _Or maybe it was his absence in many and most Christmases, birthdays and Thanksgivings?_

 _Was it when he kind of, sort of implied that it was her fault why they still weren't pregnant?_

He really doesn't know when it all started but he'd really like to turn back time and find a way to take back all those hurtful words he used to say.

 _It's his fault, he's the reason why they're failing._

In realisation that maybe, just maybe that...

Suddenly, this house that he shared with his wife was closing in on him, seizing all his air supply. He doesn't want to be here anymore.

 _No! He really doesn't!_

He has to go somewhere, anywhere really. Maybe the hospital since that's the one a place where he can be himself.

It was a place of tranquility.

 _Happiness_...he just wants to be happy again since now, he definitely isn't.

 _Why?_

He doesn't know why.

He needs to void his mind of false thoughts and the hospital is his cave, his escape. Right now, he has basically exhaust himself with thoughts of his wife. He has done enough thinking about Addison in one night than he ever had in the last couple of years.

 _He always_ used to _notice her, how can he not?_

Although he would've gone to the hospital earlier in the evening, he wanted to show and prove to her that he's not absent like she claims he has been.

 _She's not happy._

He really don't think he's been _that_ absent.

He comes home when he can.

He tells her he loves her.

He kisses her on the cheek every morning and every night and even sometimes at work whenever they cross paths.

 _What else does she need?_

He've _noticed_ her enough.

 _She's unhappy._

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he ran his hands roughly over his face, exhaling with a loud puff in contemplation of his next move.

 _Should he stay and risk the awkward encounter that the morning holds to fill in the void and regret of last night?_

 _Or should he just leave and meet her when he meets her at the hospital?_

He knows he's decision.

With that he dragged his feet across the room, picking up the various articles of clothing that Addison, not too long ago, had tossed in the air.

"Derek?" her eyes fluttered open when she heard the squeak of the closet door, raising her hands to rub them.

Sleepiness still coating her voice.

Glancing out of the window for a brief moment, confused as to why he's up and that maybe the sun had already risen.

"Where are you going?" she asked, holding the comforter against her chest as she sat up and ran a hand through her tousled hair.

It was still very much dark outside.

"I didn't hear the phone or the pager go off."

She's a light sleeper, much lighter than he is. And would've instantly jump out of bed at the sound of a beep.

His soul almost crawled out of his skin at the faint echoes of her voice; startling him, feeling like he had just been caught in a lie. Turning around while buttoning his shirt, he's met with his wife's bright eyes. Eyes that once had him begging on his knees. Eyes that lured him to her. Eyes that, even in dim light, gathered a combination of surprise, confusion and maybe even a tiny linger of fear. He wondered the thoughts that were running through her mind; _Is he leaving?_

"I'm heading to the hospital. I gotta get an early start, Addison." he said, grabbing his grey coat off the hanger.

"Derek..." she began, "You just came from the hospital. What early start do you need?"

Her voice lacked emotion and that, he doesn't know why, and along with her accusation send him over the edge.

"I got a lot of paperwork to tend to and patient files to review before surgery. I don't need to explain myself to you." he didn't even care to look her way, his tone sounding very much annoyed.

"Derek."

He's now pacing across their beige coloured room, his hands thrust deep into his hair; scratching and mumbling incoherently.

"Addison, have you seen my briefcase?"

She didn't answer him, didn't even make a sound. Instead, crossed her arms over her chest, looking squarely at him.

Crouching down, he yanked on all the drawers of the chest, slamming one after the other when his case still wasn't in sight.

"Addison...are you even listening? Have you seen my briefcase?" he raised his voice.

" _Addison_!"

She slammed her palms on the mattress, adamant to make her point, "Don't yell at me!"

She heard him sigh and can tell that he's forcibly collecting himself. "You know what! Just forget it!"

 _Just forget it?_

"Forgetting it" is what they've always been doing and that hasn't even gotten them to forget about anything. "Forgetting it" hasn't been getting them anywhere, instead drifting in a sea of nothingness.

"I'm not doing this with you right now!" he pulled himself to his feet.

His tone was cold and expressionless.

"And what exactly may that be, Derek? What are _WE_ doing? Please! Enlighten me!"

He doesn't know.

Shaking his head, "Now is not the time, Addison." he turned away, marching for the door knob.

 _When is?_

His heart was beating wildly and he stopped just as he twisted the doorknob. By the way his chest was rising and falling, he too isn't content with whatever they are doing at the moment.

She's breathing hard, and her hands trembled slightly when she flung her hair out of her face, "When is it the right time, Derek? Never mind! You came home and got what you needed, so..."

But that's not why he came home. Not at all. It may seem that way right now but - _NO!_

 _Don't put words in my mouth!_ He wants to shout that, but if he do, this whole thing will escalate and quickly too like a fire that's hungry for oxygen.

"Why are you treating me like...like I'm a-"

"Addison..." he studied her curled poise draped under the covers, listening to her breathy pained cries. He didn't want her to finish that sentence.

Contemplating whether he should comply and just stay, he exhaled deeply, "I'll see you at the hospital."

He just really wants to go.

* * *

It's tomorrow now and I'm in bed with Ma when I open my eyes. Her eyes are open too but she's not moving at all. I wonder if she even slept last night. _Maybe_. _He_ must have come last night because trash is not by the door anymore.

I don't like _him_. _He's_ a stupid dumbo monster. If only _he_ just be nice and give everything that Ma wants, then, we won't have to leave room at all.

I hate _him_ so so much.

She's staring at ceiling like she always does. I'm still so mad at Ma that I don't move her or check her breathing at all.

 _I don't care._

 _Ok_. I care a little bit because she's still my Ma. So, I take a tiny peek at her chest.

It's going up and down. That means she's breathing.

 _Good._

I lie in bed for so many _many_ hours, waiting for Ma to get up and make breakfast, but she doesn't. I don't too. I'm so scared. I'd rather just lie down with Ma and look up at ceiling too.

Last night, Ma was the _meanest_ ever. She was all not listening to me. _Not one bit_. She was the scariest I have ever seen. _Scariest and meanest._ So not like my Ma at all. I was crying, telling her I don't want to go outside and be pretend sick anymore, but she don't care. She said I have to even if I don't want to. Sometimes we have to do things we don't want to do. _That's just how life is, Christopher_. It's called sacrifice, Ma said.

She didn't even wipe away my tears like she always does when I cry, only told me to go to cupboard and sleep because _he's_ coming soon. When she said that to me, I feel like I'm a stranger she doesn't love.

I want to tell her I'm her baby.

I want to stay in room forever and ever, not in outside.

"I'm scared." I say quietly and wrap my arms around Ma's tummy.

She kisses the top of my head, "Me too, baby."

I always like it when Ma calls me her baby. Sometimes I tell her to stop because I'm five - mostly it's only joking. But today, I don't joke.

I smile a little now because Ma is still her even if she was the scariest and meanest yesterday night.

 _What if it's Ma and me last day together?_

 _What if I go in outside and police can't find her?_

 _What if I don't rescue Ma?_

 _What if outside people don't listen to me?_

 _What if all outside people are not nice like he?_

 _What if._..I don't know...There are so many things I'm scared about. I just don't want to be away from Ma. So, I hug her tummy tighter and hide my tears on her t-shirt.

"I'm sorry, Christopher. I wish there was another way out of here." Ma is crying again. "Trust me, I'd go for all the other plans if that means we'd get out of here together. I wish...I only wish for you a better life. I wish one day you'll find it in your heart to forgive Ma for everything...one day you'll come to understand why we have to do this. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

I nod. Only because if I don't Ma won't be in a good mood anymore.

"You know I love you so much, right?" Ma's voice goes higher at the end. I look to her face. She's all teary, so I wipe them away.

I don't answer.

 _I don't know._

"Christopher?" she's waiting for my answer. But sometime I feel like she doesn't.

"How much?"

That makes Ma smile and laugh a little.

"To the moon and back...to infinity and beyond."

I tell her that's just not possible because that's never ending. It's forever and ever and ever.

She kisses my nose and says, "And my love for you _is_ endless."

-:-

We lay and lay together all morning until Ma says we need to get ourselves ready and prepared. I don't want to, but I have to. _Outside is for Ma_. I'm going in outside for Ma so she can see her own Ma and Pa and brother again.

 _My Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Archer_

They are her family and mine too. I have to keep reminding myself that I am not anymore the only one. There are people in outside who loves and misses Ma too. But I still can't believe that once upon a time, Ma was a little girl.

She misses them so so much; her family. I always hear Ma cry at night when everything is super quiet and _he_ is gone. She looks up at skylight with flashlight and I know she's thinking of them. She's maybe looking for them through skylight window. She don't know that sometimes I wake to her making crying noises. I don't nudge her to stop even if it makes me sad because Ma told me before that crying makes you feel better and I want Ma to feel better. So, I listen until I fall asleep again.

Now, I'm brushing my teeth while Ma goes to make breakfast. Ma reminds me to count to ten on each sides as I'm brushing. I'm brushing and brushing and counting to ten only in my head. Then, I hear Ma jiggle her painkiller bottle. It sounds a little empty. I think she only have a few left.

Maybe she can give me one because I'm so scared I'm feeling real for real sick.

"Wrist is hurting?"

She nods.

Bad wrist is always hurting her.

"It's, umm, actually my whole arm now. I don't know what's happening...This is why we need to get out of here and get my wrist checked out before anything worsens." Ma looks at me, then at bottle, "Also, I really need to stop taking these... "

"Why? It makes you not feel bad wrist."

"Yea and that's exactly why I need to stop."

I don't get what Ma is trying to say. _So, she wants to feel bad wrist or not?_

 _If she wants to stop, why don't she just stop taking the pills?_

Sometimes she don't make sense at all that I stop listening to her.

We eat breakfast. It's oatmeal and bananas, my favourite. Ma gives me a lot a lot more on my plate. She says I have to eat up and be strong because I'm going to have a long day today.

I remember.

 _Sick. Truck. Hospital. Police. Save Ma._

 _Whoa!_ Today _is_ going to be a long day.

 _What if I get tired and sleep and don't talk to doctor and just come back to room?_

Ma is going to be the angriest ever.

 _Scariest. Meanest. Angriest. Ever._

-:-

No games. No reading. No drawing. No fun things to do today. That is our plan, Ma says. We don't even take a bath because Ma says I need to be all hot and sticky and not smelling nice like soap. Just smelling like sick.

I want bath because it's nice and relaxing and maybe I won't feel so scared about tonight. I tell Ma this but she said no; I can bath all I want once I'm outside.

We don't play anything this afternoon or even go to kindergarten, we just practice me being weak and limp from being pretend sick. It's just sick for _he_ , not pretend sick, Ma has to remind me that many _many_ times.

 _I am sick._

"Don't test my patience, Christopher. Let's do it again." Ma is talking with her teeth together and grunting loudly. That means she's annoyed.

 _Of me?_

"I was doing it all right."

She sighs deeply and ties her hair back. "Yes, you were. But we need to keep practicing and practicing until it's time."

She means until night time when _he_ comes and it's not really practicing anymore. It's really real.

We practice two more times. I'm not saying one single word. I feel a bit sick for real this time. I want to vomit. Ma says that's just the power of suggestion. "You're so good at pretending that you're even tricking yourself."

I pack my backpack for outside again. It's not actually a real backpack, I don't have one. It's really just a pillowcase that I stuff truck and one of our t-shits in. Then, Ma says no, that I have to stop.

I jumped a little when she told me to stop because I thought she was going to yell, but she actually didn't. "If you have anything with you, baby, _he_ will think you're running away and our hardwork will all be for nothing, then."

"I could hide truck in my pants pocket."

She shakes her head. "You'll wear what you'd be wearing to sleep. Okay? That's what you'd wear if you were really scorching hot with a fever."

Ma says she'll get me all the different kinds of trucks there is in outside once we're out. I wonder how she will.

I think about _he_ carrying me into the truck and into hospital, then I'm feeling all dizzy like I'm going to fall down.

I don't like _him_ touching me.

"Scared is what you're feeling." says Ma. _How does she know what I'm feeling?_ "Brave is what you're doing."

"Huh?"

"You're braver than me." she kisses my cheek.

 _No_. Actually Ma is the bravest. _He_ touches her every time but she never feels like she's falling down.

 _Scariest. Meanest. Angriest. Bravest. Ever._

-:-

It's almost four thirty when we remember to eat lunch. I'm not very hungry but Ma says I still have to eat something. _You're going on a mission, remember?_ I will only if she will eat something too, I tell her.

"Okay." she says but she's not very hungry too. I think Ma is scared like me.

 _I'm going on a mission._

"Which part of our plan you're worried about?" she asks.

"The hospital part. What if - what if I don't say the right words?" I scratch my head.

"All you have to do is tell them that your mother is locked in a shed in a backyard and the man who brought you in did it."

"But the words-"

"What?" she interrupts impatiently. "What's so confusing for you?"

She doesn't understand.

"What if the words don't come out at all?"

Ma puts her palms to her eyes and keeps them there for a while. "Sorry. I keep forgetting that you've only ever talked to me. No one else."

I wait. Maybe she'll tell me that I don't have to do plan anymore.

But then she lets out a breath that's long and noisy. "Okay, I've got an idea. What if I write you a note?"

Ma is not suppose to ask me questions. She's suppose to already know answers to all the questions.

I shrug my shoulders.

"Yeah. I'll write you a note that explains everything."

"Okay."

I think so that's much better.

"You just give it to the first person - No, I mean give it to a doctor or nurse, okay? Not a patient...Ugh. I wish I have a picture to show you what they would look like." she scratches her forehead before saying never mind. "The first person you see who's in a long white coat or someone who's wearing all blue shirt and pants and weird looking shoes."

Ma smiles at that and her eyes waters a bit.

"What will the doctor or nurse do with the note?"

"Read it."

"TV people can read?"

She stares at me long. "They're real people, Christopher. Just as real as you and I."

I still don't believe any of that but I don't say it.

Ma writes me the note on a paper that she folds it tiny so I can hide it in my pants pocket.

It's a story about us and room which really was a shed and _he_ locked Ma up for the past seven years. The note is saying that she is a doctor from a city called New York and that she had me in room. She writes my name in note too. But not _he_ because she doesn't know _his_ name. And they need to send help. _Quick! Quick!_ But she doesn't know where room is. And they need to do everything they can to not let _he_ take me back. They need to keep me safe and if anything ever happens to Ma, Derek Shepherd will take care of me...

I don't even know what a Derek Shepherd is.

Ma is crying at the end of writing note. And I want to too. "What is going to happen to you, Ma?" I ask. I'm shouting a bit because I think I know what she means.

"Nothing, baby. They just need to know stuff like this. Okay? Just in case. I promise I'll be outside with you soon. I promise."

 _Nothing is going to happen to Ma._

I don't really believe her but I want to.

 _Nothing is going to happen to Ma._

There is something strange at the start of note. It's many words that I never saw before in my life and I ask Ma what is it.

 _Dr. Addison Adrianne Forbes Montgomery Shepherd_

She said they are her names like TV people have. _Addison_ is what everybody in outside used to call her. It's only me who calls her Ma.

 _So, Ma and her friend, Addison, has the same name?_

That's weird. My tummy hurts worse now and my head too. There are so many things that Ma is just telling me that I feel like my brain is going to explode. _BOOM!_ I don't like her to have other names that I never even knew about. "Do _I_ have other names too?"

"Well..." she frowns and plays with my hair, "Well, not exactly, no, you're...Christopher, but I guess, you'd be a Montgomery." she points at the fifth word.

 _Christopher Montgomery?_

"What for?"

"Well, to show you're not the same as all the other _Christophers_ in the world."

"Which other Christopher? Like in stories?"

"No, real boys like you." says Ma. "There are millions of people out there and there aren't enough names for everyone, so they have to share."

 _Is that why Ma shares her name with Addison?_

I don't want to share my name. My tummy hurts _worser_. I don't know how I feel about outside. It sounds so big and scary. I don't understand how millions of TV people can all fit in outside.

I have so many _many_ questions!

"Christopher, remember Addison? My friend?"

I nod.

"She's not really a friend...because she's...me. Everything I told you about Addison is actually all about me."

My eyes are huge now. And I'm much much more confused than ever that I don't even know what to do or say next to Ma. I want to shout. I'm so confused.

Ma is actually Addison. _So, Ma was the one who did something bad one night and not Addison?_

No, there is no other Addison. It's only all Ma.

 _Remember?_

Ma did something bad one night and that made her husband throw her out of their home and then, she got lost. Only now I know she really isn't because she's here, in room, with me.

 _Who is Ma's husband?_

 _Why Ma has a husband?_

"And...Derek Shepherd, he...'' Ma stops talking, only looking at me and her eyes are getting shinier and shinier, "He's my _husband_..." It sounded like she doesn't even know, "Yeah."

 _Ma is married in outside?_

 _Ma love a man?_

 _Why?_

I don't want that. I want Ma to only love me.

Ma is the baddest too. A liar.

 _Scariest. Meanest. Angriest. Baddest. Ever._

The light is all fading quickly away now, becoming darker and darker. I wish the day would stay longer. So, I wouldn't have to play pretend sick just to go outside.

* * *

She had never felt pain this bona fide, couldn't remember the last time anything had felt this tormenting. Even all the spoken and unspoken abuse that occurred in this horror, they are nothing compared to _this_ pain.

It hurts like nothing she have ever felt before.

Axons that had been once numb and forgotten for so long are suddenly woken alive to torturous overkill, blazing and piercing her body like hailing bullets.

It had just occurred to her, just now, just this instant, just today and not for the last seven years - yes, just right this moment, it is occurring to her that her husband, Derek, might just be with someone else.

Someone prettier. Someone with less baggage. Someone smarter. Someone who doesn't cheat. Someone who isn't desperately clingy. Someone without trust issues, daddy issues, and not to mention mommy issues too. Because heaven knows she's the president of all three issues. Someone who's confident. Someone with actual self-esteem and self-respect. Because if she had just the slightest, she wouldn't have slept with her husband's best friend.

Someone who isn't her. _Yes, basically._ Someone who'd make him forget all about her in a day because she's just that special and wonderful.

 _Why shouldn't he be with a someone else?_

After what she did to him and their marriage, she see no other reason as to why not.

 _What about her, though?_

She has no grounds to be crumbling with jealousy because she's playing house with a someone else too. She had a child with a someone else that's not her husband and is possibly baring another one too.

 _You can't be seething, Addison._ But she's not, she's crushed at thought that her husband has moved farther on without her. _You fucked his best friend and now, this stranger for the last seven years._ She knows she shouldn't have started the road for deceit, but it's not like she had a choice the second time.

 _What does that say about her?_

She clawed the edge of the table to assist her in standing up. Her legs are jelly. She had just gotten Christopher to calm down with the information she'd just expelled on him. He's beyond shocked, but he's five, he'll get over it just as quickly.

 _He might be in love with another woman. No. No. No. No!_

Everything is spinning. This - it's an intense, forceful pain and terror and over it all hung a crushing sense of loss, like something inside her had been ripped away and she would never be whole again. She can't cry. She shouldn't have to. This room is spinning. It'll make her far more feeble. Her heart is leaking from the sandpaper that's chafing a colossal hole right into the centre.

 _He might be in bed with her as of this second. No. No. No. No!_

And that thought is hacking away at her already broken heart. She needs to sit down and think. But her knees are too stiff to bend. She shouldn't be thinking about him. There's no time to be thinking about her husband.

 _He might be married with kids, a village of them for all she knows. No. No. No. No!_

Now that's when her legs gave in and she found herself falling right onto a chair.

He'd always wanted children. He wanted a village of them - a village of little Shepherds that he never failed to stop reminding her of. Especially during the holidays when they would visit his mother's and that's the ground zero for little Shepherds.

He wanted _their_ little Shepherds to grow up just as he did, with Mrs. Shepherd popping one after the other after the other and if it wasn't for Mr. Shepherd's passing who knows how many more little Shepherds could there have been.

 _She does._

Oh, she knows that his mother never really liked her, and she's locked up in here, and she just found out that her husband _might_ be with a someone else, so that gives her all the right to be bitter and spit rubbish in her head.

But he must think she's dead. _Right?_ She've been gone for too long to be just missing.

She'd like to believe that he waited and mourned the death of his wife for a few years before commencing a relationship. _Yes_. That's tricking her to feel a drop better.

And she, she wanted kids too. Only not really - not as badly as he wanted one or a village. Only because she never really or ever was ready to want kids. She could hardly even take care of herself. Still can't and she's barely even a parent to the one she has now.

She's not a mother because to her, being a mother isn't just a title. It's the responsibilities that comes along with motherhood that make a woman a mother.

Her mother is a mother. She can't complain with that one because Bizzy tried to fulfill her responsibilities as a mother to the best of her abilities. And she and her brother turned out just fine.

A mother is someone to aspire to, a role model. She shouldn't even be qualified as a mother because there's nothing remotely ambitious about her. _Nothing_. She's just a pathetic little human who talked herself into not taking her birth control because maybe - just maybe then, she'd get pregnant and Derek will finally notice her again and they'll go back to being happy and perfect.

Because a baby always _always_ brings light to darkness. A baby is always _always_ the answer. To trap him down. To make him stay. To scream, _"Here's your responsibility! Don't even think about leaving!"_

 _What was she thinking?_

She was desperate. They were failing and she couldn't let that happen. Not to them. _No!_ She couldn't let her father win.

 _A father knows what's best for his children and that's not what's best for my daughter._

Her father is in her ear again, hissing disappointment at her. Just like the day he did when she informed her family of their engagement.

 _"We're getting married."_

It was silent crocodile smiles on their end.

She didn't want to tell them just yet but Derek thought it to be unnecessarily cruel. They're her parents after all.

 _"They could just find out like everyone else with the invitations, Der. We don't have to have them for dinner."_

Her father didn't even bother to hide his distaste with a smile like Bizzy had.

 _"And where will this wedding be taking place?"_

He wanted her to marry someone that could boost the Montgomery name, not tarnish. He wanted what's best for her - no, he actually believed that a surname could make a difference. Like an Astor or Vanderbilt, Livingston, and Van Rensselaer, even a Reagan would do no harm.

 _But a Shepherd?_

He wanted her to be just like her mother when she married him. From a Forbes to a Forbes-Montgomery. From her father's house to a sorority house, then his house.

 _"Addison, dear, remember that ring your cousin, Cordelia, got for her twentieth birthday? Your engagement ring looks just like that...It's pretty..."_

Oh, of course, what's a family gathering without Bizzy's witty and unnecessary remarks.

She never understood why she even bothered trying with her parents.

Reaching for a pot, she turned the tap, filling it with water before placing it on the stove and turning to the maximum heat to wait for the tip of boiling to begin.

 _Where will they go from here?_

Are they... _is she living in her brownstone with her husband?_

 _What if Derek doesn't take her back? Doesn't want her? What is she going to do? Where are they going to live?_

She don't think she can figure her life out. _Ever_. Not after this, after all that _he's_ done to her.

Her life is like a shattered vase; unfixable.

She stared into the pot impatiently and watched the water swirl with droplets falling from above until she realised it's tears that's she's shedding.

 _Mark!_

They can stay with Mark and even her brother. Not her parents. Definitely not them because they'll drive her crazier than she already is.

She's slightly relieved now.

 _Mark..._

It's just that she doesn't want to be alone anymore. She's afraid.

But she's never ever going to be alone. _When will she ever stop to realise that?_

-:-

It's almost time for their great performance and Christopher is already lying on the bed just as they had practiced all day.

He look nervously at her when she walked over with a bag of _almost_ piping hot water. _Almost_. And she almost - just almost want to not continue with their plan because she feels like the worst mother on the planet.

"Ready?" she asked, holding the hot bag of water inches from his sodden face.

 _It's hot._

He shook his head - _no_. But she pretended like she didn't just see his protest and pressed the bag to his face.

 _It's hot._

"Ouch!" he cried, trying to push her hands away. And she cried out too when he swat at her wrist. The one that she had kept strain and pressure to a minimum today.

Pulling the bag away, she looked sadly at her baby and swiped the damp hairs from his forehead. It must be difficult having a mother like her. "I'm sorry, Christopher, but it's got to be hot or it won't work."

"But it hurts."

She pressed the bag to her cheek. He's right - it is hot. But it's a pleasant sting for her. Of course, not to a five year old, especially one with thin and translucent skin like his. "Just one more minute."

But he lifted his scrawny arms to his face, shaking his head.

"You have to be brave and do this for Ma. I promise, just this once." she said with as much conviction as she can fake, "Or else all our practice will be for nothing. Maybe I should just tell _him_ you got better?"

"No. Don't."

"I bet Superman would put a hot bag on his face if he had to. Come on, just a little longer."

She had the bag to his face again and he grabbed onto it with both hands. "I'll do it."

He has no idea how much she wants him to, how much it pains her to know that she's the source of his pain.

She watched Christopher with a frown that's really intended to be a reassuring smile. But what kind of a monster would she have to be to smile when her son's hiccuping on his sobs, to not feel the remorse that's already peeling away her skin in long bloody strips.

She's so sorry.

He put the bag down on the pillow and scrunched up his face, taking a deep breath before pressing the hotness back to his face. She can hear him count to ten and each time that he comes back up for a break, she praised him, telling him that he's doing so good.

She's sorry.

He let go again and looked up at her with eyes so blue and huge with pity and are begging her for this to be the last round. _They just started, though._ She had to look away at that. She don't know how Bizzy ever does it.

Ignore her and her brother.

 _Doesn't it tear her heart into pieces?_

Feeling his forehead and cheek, she nodded. "Good." Then, she pushed his hands back down to his face.

 _Not hot enough._

He cried out loudly. "I don't want to do this anymore, Ma."

She don't too.

And she chewed on her bottom lip, covering her ears with her hands because she doesn't want to her him cry.

She doesn't want to stop. She doesn't want to cave in just yet.

They've made it this far.

He's crying and it's not because of the stinging burn on his face but because of the thought of _him_ coming tonight. And taking _him_ outside to the big big world his mother's always gushing about.

He wants to stay here.

He really _really_ doesn't want _him_ to come back. Listening and waiting for the _beep_ _beep_ is making him sick to his stomach. He's having a stomach ache. _How come his mother is never this scared when she waits for him?_

He hopes _he_ doesn't come.

He's not brave. He's, plain and simple, scared.

Addison can see that his face is all red when he lifted the bag and she kissed his scorching cheek. _It's hot._ Perhaps this isn't worth hurting her son. "You're doing phenomenal, sweetie. Crying is good too. Really perfect."

"Why?"

"Because it makes you look a lot sicker. Let's do something about your hair. _Shit!_ I should have thought about that sooner." she scratched her forehead before running quickly to the sink to grab the dish soap and squirt a pump onto her palm, rubbing it into his hair. "That looks good and greasy. _Oh!_ But it smells too nice, you need to really smell."

She turned around to look at the clock. _Two minutes to nine._ She doesn't have enough time to think. It's sandpaper that she swallowed. "We're running out of time." she said frantically.

She's flustered, all over the place and she can't exactly feel the ground anymore. She floating through. Her heart is pounding. She's dizzy.

 _He's_ coming.

"I'm so stupid, you have to smell bad..."

She's got an idea that might actually work.

And so, she stuck her fingers down her throat. She's no stranger to the occasional purging. More than just occasional, in fact. It's what she did for the better part of Bizzy's relentless criticism.

It's something that's acknowledged but never spoken of.

She had no safe haven growing up and the last place one would want to be picked on is at their own home too. School, she gets it. People can be relentlessly harsh with the truth. It's what's expected.

 _Big Bird!_

But when her own mother would join in on the fun too, she found comfort in the confines of her bathroom.

She's so sorry.

She gagged and coughed up her dinner onto the pillow. This would've been much more helpful if she had eaten more.

"Stop! Ew!" he shrieked and tried to wriggle away.

"Sorry, I have to." she mumbled quickly.

"Put your face on the hot bag again."

"But-"

"Now! Do it, Christopher!" she shouted.

He did. Shaking as he does.

"I want to stop now."

"No. We're not practicing anymore. This is it. We can't stop now. You have to do it." she said sternly.

She's sorry.

He feels as though his face his going to melt off and that scares him. He's crying again but she doesn't care. She only cares about the plan.

"You're mean."

"I've actually been too nice, Christopher."

 _Beep beep..._

* * *

It's loud. So _so_ very loud and she can feel sweat trickling down her back, the fabric of her t-shirt sticking to her damp pores.

The _beep beep_ \- it's louder than it has ever been and by the way Christopher straightened to a halt, she knows he thought it too.

The universe froze for just a fraction of a millisecond and her eyes met the bloodshot ones beneath her with an unsaid acknowledgment.

 _He's here._

She shuddered. "This is it, baby. Remember what we practiced. Okay." she quickly muttered before getting up on wobbly knees, ripping the hot bag off of Christopher's face and stuffing it under the bed, all within a matter of seconds.

"Shh..." she told him when he whimpered and pressed the pillow to his face, pulling the blanket over his head to make it look as though he's awfully shivering with the chills.

The cold air swooshed in, changing the dynamics for just a moment and she can taste the deep and rich taste of the earth on the tip of her tongue again.

She's savouring it.

She's hungry for the outside.

She can feel cold wind everywhere on her skin.

She can taste freedom.

She wants freedom so desperately. She'll do anything.

They're so close. They're so close.

They can do this.

"Oh, thank you. Thank you. You're here." she drew a shaking breath, trying to get control of her nerves, but it's pure terror coursing through her now.

She can act. It's just pretending. She pretends all the time.

"Keep your voice down." he growled.

"It's just-"

" _Shush!_ " he cut her off and hissed for her to keep her mouth shut.

Compliant, she clamped both lips together as her stomach swooped with something that's more than just panic and she hurried on her heels to face away from the door to wait for the inevitable slamming and pressed a hand to her abdomen.

 _No! No..._

Another six digit pushing of the keypad buttons, which means he's re-entering the passcode to lock the fucking metal door.

 _Boom..._

Her heart thumped along.

"This isn't your first, missy." _he_ said stiffly, "Not a peep out of you till the door's shut."

 _Yes. Yes. She knows._ That's rule number two, right after no screaming when he's here.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry. It's - it's Christopher. I - he's really sick." her voice is coarse, voicing out in short nervous spurts and for a second there, she's even fooling herself.

She's better than she gives herself credit for. But she can't celebrate just yet because their act has just began. By the end of tonight and when she's home, and they're comfortable and happy again, when she sees Derek, her brother, parents and even Mark, maybe then she'll give herself a pat on the back.

 _He_ walked with hesitation and she watched as _he_ glanced over at Christopher on the bed. "It fucking reeks in here."

"That's because he's had it coming out both ends." she heard her voice rise when _he_ just glide swiftly over to the couch.

On an uneventful night, she'd be more than just pleased to do just that - watch TV and do nothing else. _Absolutely nothing else_. Tonight is anything but uneventful so she needs a reaction out of _him_ for their plan to work.

"Probably just a twenty-four-hour bug." _he_ shrugged.

 _There's no such thing as a_ _twenty-four-hour bug!_

She wants to scream that. She wants to do a lot of things. But nothing more than her want and need and crave to grab the lamp off the stand and whack it over his head.

"It's been like two days now. He's only getting worse. It could be-"

"Give him one of those pills." _he_ flipped through the channels, making no small effort to glance her way.

"What do you think I've been doing all day? He just pukes them back up. He can't even keep water down."

 _He_ doesn't answer.

 _He_ puffed his breath, switched the TV off and for a moment they just look at each other. _He's_ watching her like she's worm food. And she shuddered within, crossing her arms around herself, wishing she had a long coat to cower in. "Let's have a look at him."

"No." she said, leaning against the wall, blocking _his_ way.

"Come on, get out of _my_ way."

"No, I said no-" but _he_ took her by the arm and pushed her aside. It didn't even take _him_ an ounce of effort. She's easy to push around, to be shoved around. She've noticed that.

Fortunately, she didn't stumble bad at all, just stumbling a step to the couch before she regained her composure.

"Hey, _sonny_."

Christopher kept his face practically glued to the pillow. It's all sticky and yucky. _He's_ there, right by his side, and he shut his eyes tight. His mother is hovering above too. But she's not close like she promised she would.

He bit his lip hard and made a sound for his mother to help him because he's feeling so scared. She lied again. She said it would be his forehead that _he'll_ touch, but it isn't. It's his cheek that _he's_ touching and _his_ hand isn't like his mother's.

It's cold and heavy and so big and not nice at all.

"I'll get him something stronger from the drugstore." _he_ stood back up and said drily.

 _He's leaving. No!_

She narrowed her eyes. "Something stronger? He's five! He's clearly dehydrated and with a fever of God knows what!"

His mother is shouting. She shouldn't shout. _He_ doesn't like her shouting. _He's_ going to hurt her again.

"Just shut up for a second and let me think!" he ran a hand over his jaw.

"He needs to go to the ER right now, and you know it."

 _He_ grumbled, shaking _his_ head.

"No. No."

" _No_?" she breathed, and it's just not enough. She swallowed back tears. "If you don't take him with you right now, he'll...he could-"

"Oh, stop it with the melodrama, will you!" _he_ waved her away, "You're the doctor, fix him."

 _He_ always _always_ likes bring that up.

And she've always had a problem with her emotions. Mood swings is what everyone else calls if. One minute she'd be so fucking happy, the next, she's not. And now, the bipolar is telling her to be firing with rage.

"I'm not a doctor anymore. Remember?" she seethed. Her eyes stinging as she looked _him_ in the eye. Sudden courage found her - or perhaps, it's just anger because she already knows they've failed miserably; they're not getting out of here tonight. And the moment she expelled her next words, it's all too late to stop herself. "I'm a fucking prisoner in this fucking hellhole because you're a fucking nobody with mommy issues that nobody wants to fuck."

It _almost_ felt good to talk back - almost - because right on cue, she watched as _his_ hands balled into fists. She took a small step back, unaware of the limited space and she felt the cold kitchen counter.

 _Shit!_

She's breathing in shallow breaths.

But she's still watching _him_ watching her, watching as _his_ hands reach out for her, one clawing the neckline of her shirt, the other closing around her wrist. _Her bad wrist._ _He_ knows it's her bad wrist. She didn't even have enough time to cry out because as soon as her brain stopped short circuiting, _he_ jerked her violently towards _him_ and then, pushed her up against the wall, hard.

Her heart seized any traction.

She heard the back of her head smack against the concrete. She felt it too.

 _He's_ twisting her wrist, digging _his_ nails into where the intricate bones all but crushed and she cried out at the hot, searing pain. Attempting to yank her hand away.

And suddenly _he's_ leaning up close to her, flattening her against the wall with _his_ body, bringing _his_ face to hers and hissing in her ear. "Don't test me. I so easily can take him away from you. So do not test me, _Addison_."

"Okay." she whispered and she can hardly even hear herself. "Okay. I'm sorry..."

"Just tell them he has no papers. Or you found him on the streets. He needs to get checked out. Please. I'll do anything."

"There's no talking to you." _He's_ pinning in the code again and she's desperately falling after _him_.

"Don't go. Please, please..."

Her bones shook with the walls when the door slammed shut.

 _It's all quiet._

He opened his eyes. His mother is on her knees, and everything is very quiet, except for her wailing. Then, he came to realise that he had tears on his face too and he walked over so she could make him stop crying.

But she didn't even look at him. She only stared at the door. So Christopher got onto her lap and wrapped his arms around her neck and she lifted her arms too to wrap them around him. Like a hug, but a hug is suppose to be comforting.

 _Right?_

It's better than no hugs at all and so he huddled in his mother's empty embrace.

"Did I mess up the pretending?"

"No. You were a star. Even better than Ma."

She started to cry again. She cried without making any noise and pressed a hand to her abdomen again to make _it_ stop.

She knew _he_ wouldn't take the risk. _He'll_ leave them to die in here to save _himself_.

 _Of course._

Christopher pulled her close and hugged her with all his might and told her he was sorry again and again and again. "Please don't be gone forever, Ma. You said..."

 _She'll die if she has to stay here one more day._

She knows what she said. But she's Addison, she don't quit. And _he's_ fallen right into her plan.

* * *

 ** _Hey guys! Thanks for reading. Part 2 out of 3 of their great escape is done._**

 ** _How do you feel about Derek? And Meredith? And how will Addison react when she finds out? Or should she?_**

 ** _Please review! I'd love to know your thoughts. So I could improve my writing! :)_**


	9. Chapter 9 - 2,589 days

**Chapter 9 - 2,589 days**

 _2,589 days. . ._

 ** _Wait and Hope_**

 _. . .It's necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live. . ._

 _Friday. 02:56._

She can taste the salt from the ocean on her tongue.

She can hear the waves lapping over the sand on the beach.

She can smell the flowers blooming in the windowpane and from the pots along the porch.

She can see the bright sun, sand and sea and it's not just a mirage anymore.

She can feel him at her back, arms looped tight around her waist, like a promise, a commitment to never let her fall.

She can hear him as he whispers into her ear.

It's music to her ears.

"The sun looks pretty in your hair."

He's like a song she'd heard once in fragments but has been singing in her mind ever since.

"It's redder, I guess." she shrugged a comment.

"Not that." he returned, threading his fingers softly through the loose waves of her hair. "The actual sun. It makes your hair look like burnished copper and all fiery. It's like the light is stuck in each strand, setting them aflame."

She giggled - or, perhaps, laughed, but either way she smiled, then sighed, tipping her head forward so her hair hung on either side of her face, hiding the fact that after all these years together he still manages to make her blush with just his words. "Derek…"

"Your skin glows too."

Because just his words only can make her shiver and tingle.

"And you smell like… _God,_ you smell like vanilla and...is that Chanel No. 5?"

She can almost feel the sweep of his lips over the curve of her neck. _Almost_. Just almost since life is a series of not quite and very nearly.

It's because he's not really here. Still, she closes her eyes to draw him closer, to stop him from teasing her, to feel his lips loving her like before, and she aches when he disappears without saying goodbye.

The phantom memories likes to play cruel tricks with her brain every now and then.

 _Well, it's more so every than then._

And that's how and why she's so sane and intact and somewhat still aware in the head. Her brain never stops. _Never_. It loops dangerously, threateningly until it throbs.

She's too close. The vast and whole other world outside is just a hair's length away - both figuratively speaking and in the literal sense. She's so certain that this time will be it. _They'll get out_. And for once in her life, she actually trusts her newfound optimism, her intuition, her confidence.

Yesterday and for the last thirty-five years, those nouns can never be used to describe her. And all this servile positivity is so bewilderingly new to her because she've never been that - positive. She can't even remember a time when she didn't respond in wit or sarcasm or when there wasn't a touch of judgement in her tone. It's taught. She didn't just born a pessimist. It's a learned behaviour, like watching your parents bash at each other. Optimism and hopefulness can never be seen and is never heard of in the Montgomery Mansion growing up. Back then, it was stacking as high as the Empire State with Bizzy's criticism, disappointment, pessimism and the silent - _who's she kidding?_ It never was silent at all - acknowledgment of all the Captain's conquests.

It's odd and different to feel this way - this overwhelming sense of _hope_ , one that she's just dug up so deep in treasure within her. _Yes_ , it's so off and icky to have hope, but it's okay, she likes feeling this way, because it's making her feel so good about herself.

And heaven knows she needs a little confidence boost. _More than a little, really_. The confidence and dignity _he's_ snatched away and torn to pieces and burnt to ashes so it can never been found, she needs to gain them back somehow, someway.

 _Who knew all she needed was just a tad percentage of hope?_

It's been such an unforgivingly long day and she thinks she should sleep or nap or just take a break from her rampant brain because she's so very exhausted, but if only it were that simple, to switch herself off, that is.

Life hasn't been simple for the most part, a majority of it actually.

A couple of hours ago, she was barely holding herself together. _Barely_. The initial coming down from an adrenaline high was a sucker punch, a surprise, hitting her hard in the stomach and in all directions, simultaneously too and she definitely wasn't prepared for the ache in her heart to ricochet torrents down her cheeks.

It was a myriad of emotions - from total and absolute petrify when _he_ walked in to one of satisfaction as she spat her freedom at _his_ face for the first time in years, then agony and regret when _he_ all but slammed her against the wall and twisted and turned and threatened, relief as _he_ left with the _beep_ - _beep_ echoing loud, but then, she was back to being petrified that millisecond later.

She had felt Christopher trying to pull her to her feet but was too tired to stand. So, she pulled him closer to her instead and hugged him very tight and told him that she was sorry over and over again. Then, she let him blow his nose on her sleeve when he wouldn't stop crying.

He's scared. She is too.

"Are we still going to outside?"

She didn't look at him, couldn't, wouldn't, doesn't want to feel any more guilt - she only reached blindly for his hand and clung to it desperately.

"Tomorrow." she pulled him even closer, buried her face in his hair and sighed. "Tomorrow. That's _our_ last chance."

 _Our last chance._

She'll take her baby with her.

She'll save him from _him_.

She can't leave him with _him_.

She won't.

 _He's_ a monster. And she's a mother. A mother's love for her child knows no law, no pity, no boundaries.

She'll do anything.

She'll save him first.

Christopher, then, gently put his arms around her neck and they stayed huddled, side-by-side, in each other's arms until she felt his cries begin to decimate into soft hiccups.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I wish I was a better mother." she combed through his hair with her fingers - it's tough, matted with bile and sticky with perspiration. She kissed the salt on his forehead before swiping them away with the back of her sleeve.

And Christopher, more asleep than awake grumbled a response. "You're the best Ma I ever known in all of TV and outside people..."

Her son's sincerity to that statement, his obvious naivety to believe that she even remotely is one would and should actually repair her pulverised and lacking heart.

It didn't, wouldn't, couldn't and shouldn't.

Because he doesn't know anything.

He hasn't been around anyone else but her ever since he took his first breath. He doesn't know. He doesn't know how bad of a mother she is.

But he looks at her like she's the centre of his world.

 _He doesn't know anything._

 _Why is she continuing to prove her inadequacy as a mother?_

Tonight, her heart doesn't allow her to savour any mild form of tranquility and insurance whatsoever. But she guess, this is better than feeling nothing at all.

Still sitting on cold floor, holding a sleeping little boy in her arms, his breath hot on her chest, she focuses on her large and bony hands, twists on the spot where her gold band used to rest so elegantly - _I do_ \- tries not to clench them because they hurt so bad, until she had to force her nails to dig into her own palms. They tremble against the dark fabric of her pants, smearing some of the theatrical blood along the sharp creases.

It's been awhile since she last felt the breathless fear wash over her, the tight band of panic wrapping around her lungs and squeezing too tightly.

He's surely found another woman to love. _Derek_. She knows her husband all so well, too well and it's at despair like this she wishes she doesn't know him at all.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts so much to love him. But he's always worth the pain. _Always_. And he's always known it too, she's sure of it.

He knows that she loves him unconditionally and with no repercussions.

She thinks she might just die if he ever has.

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 04:09._

She doesn't sleep. Continues to stare straight ahead. At the wall. She listens for any sounds of life outside. Listens for footsteps, cars, people and all she gets is sheer displeasure and sadness as the magnificent carolling of crickets plays in the background. She stays awake for hours on end and for years and years and gets nothing in return - _no_ , she only gets restlessness and more stomach pains, which she thanks because that's her justification to continue treating _this_ with painkillers, to not feel and to only drift past the zenith.

She, now, understands why Amy does what she does.

It's only inevitable. It's only smart. It's the only way out.

 _They make medicine for that, why not use them for it's sole purpose?_

It's a _need to_ when she knows it isn't. But nonetheless, she needs it, needs to take a lot more than she should just to not be sick.

 _Right?_

She wonders if Amy even thinks of her.

Maybe, maybe not, but whatever the answer may be, it doesn't matter. Not when she knows she probably hates her, along with the rest of the Shepherds.

She had spent a chunk of her life judging people and that, itself, would always fuel her conviction. It basically is - was a hobby. It was actually one of the few traits she did get from her mother.

 _Judgemental. Critical. Sad. Bitchy._

Suicide - a seven letter word for being a free spirit.

When she was younger, she would've thought of it as selfish and inconsiderate.

 _How could they leave their children and loved ones behind to grieve so painfully?_

But then again, life, a precious gift happened, and she isn't the exact replica of her younger self anymore.

 _Right?_

She's clearly changed. Because now, she understands. She don't see it as weak. She don't see them as broken souls. She don't see them spontaneously thinking so recklessly. She sees them as those who have spent nights and days preparing and convincing and readying themselves to claim and execute their right.

She winces and stops thinking and presses a hand to her stomach. She continues to stare at the wall, tracing patterns against the patternless blurb as she bites through another wave of pain.

She listens to the calming narrative of Christopher's hushed and soft expelling, distracting herself from the discomfort. It's not particularly painful, just unsettling. She counts each intake of breaths - ... _five...six...seven..._ as they grow deeper, heavier, then slower beside her, until he is so soft that she strains to hear.

The crickets are getting louder and bolder.

Mother Nature is teasing her.

There's a panicked cry calling for her but she doesn't hurry to console or even try to stop the sounds from breaking any further because she's too busy trying to figure out the pieces of their plan.

She waits.

"Ma." he whimpers, and this time she does try to console. Turning around, she sees Christopher holding out his arms.

 _Ma_.

The word hits her hard. _How?_ It's just one word, a two letter word. It's so common, so precarious, so useless, so unfitting for her. But it clawed at her heart and she hacked for a breath to release. She's a mother, she remembers then, and she still can't believe He thinks she's remotely qualified to be one.

She sits up and sinks him closer to her. Her senses are ever-filled with the whimpering small child as he buries his hot face in her chest and clings with tiny and mighty fingers to the fabric of her shirt.

She strokes his hair rhythmically, humming a tune until he calms down.

He leans back, lying half on her lap, and gazes up at her.

"A bad dream?"

He nods slowly, wearily.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Outside," Christopher says hesitantly, his voice still tearful. "I dream you don't love me in outside. You love Derek more than you love me."

 _Does she?_

It's pure shame that she even has to stop to think about that one.

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 11:19._

They ate breakfast in mutual silence. It was as if Christopher knows that she needed the peace and quiet, to be alone by herself in her head, her thoughts only accompanying the shutter silence. He understood her without her having to tell him to keep it down.

She smiles appreciatively at the floor. She loves him even more for that.

With a deep exhale, she sinks onto the couch, where Christopher is watching TV with the volume all the way near silent, and drew her legs underneath, letting the cushions welcome her dragging limbs, sore back, aching stomach and heavy head.

Her eyes wandered across the fours walls, taking in the lack of everything, then she tentatively holds out her hands for her little boy, whom she does not and never ever have regretted loving every tiny little microsecond of the last five years, and he rubs his eyes before taking her hands. She squeezes strength into his palms, then kisses them.

"Listen," she breathes, "You'll have to play dead."

She's just being straightforward - no turning corners or shortcuts or making left and right turns - so he can understand the severity of their situation and not confuse him with more tales.

His face tightens, brows knits in a broken line and frowns. But he doesn't pull his hands back, just looks mundanely at her, like she's just spoken a foreign language, and she's grateful because she was half expecting him to shout.

She can't blame him if he does.

"I don't know that game."

She smiles weakly at Christopher and swallows hard. "It's not a game, Christopher. It's pretend. Just like acting on TV...Like last night. But instead of being all floppy, you have to be stiff. Very very stiff. Don't worry. It'll be easy..." _who is she really trying to convince?_ "I'll wrap you up in the rug, so that way he'll never guess you're actually alive. Then, I'll tell him to take you somewhere to bury you."

 _Cold. Calculated. Bitch._

He whimpers and she watches as his bottom lip quiver. "Why he has to bury me?" he asks tearfully.

But before she can fully comprehend and really acknowledge his worry, she's babbling to answer his question. "Because dead bodies starts to decom-rot really fast."

"But I'm not dead."

"Oh, honey," she ruffles his hair, noting the way he clung to her slight frame, "It's just pretend, remember?"

"Like pretending to be sick yesterday."

"Yes. But no moving, no making any _any_ sounds. Not even breathing."

He nods. He seems to understand.

"Believe me," she sighs, "This isn't how I hoped our initial plan would go but he's so smart, Christopher, really, I mean like-so we always have to be two steps ahead of him."

 _He'll never see what hit him._

She knew he wouldn't take the bait. She knew he wouldn't risk getting caught for anyone, even his son.

But what he doesn't know is she's much more smarter. There's a reason why she graduated on top of all her classes.

 _Well, except P.E._

One should always have a backup plan.

 _Right?_

 _When kidneys fail, they generally fail together; barring trauma or cancer, there's not much advantage to a backup._

But not in this case.

"Okay." she feels her heart thumping against her chest and swipes a hand over her eyes. "Let me tell you how it's going to be, so you won't be so scared. Okay."

From his oceanic orbs, she sees a reflection of a gruelling forced smile that scares her to her core, a faux-happy with a whole load of fear in it's eyes and she wonders if Christopher noticed it too.

He's always so aware.

" _He'll_ tap in the numbers to open the door, then, _he'll_ carry you out of room, all rolled up in the rug."

She points to the rug on the floor.

"Will you be in rug too?" his sounds hopeful in questioning and she knows he's wishing she wouldn't be Grinch this time around and say yes instead.

 _No._

"I'll be right here. Waiting." she urges softly and his lashes flutter. She can tell he's trying not to cry and she commend him for his bravery because she can never be as brave as her son.

"He'll carry you to his truck and put you in the back, the part that's open-"

"I want to wait here too."

She's flooding with guilt but brushes them aside because it's making her chest deathly heavy and puts a finger on his mouth to shush him. "And that's your chance."

"What is?"

"To jump. The first time it slows down at a stop sign, you're going to wiggle out of the rug, jump down onto the street, run away, and bring the police to rescue me."

He stares at her.

"So, this time the plan is Dead, Truck, Run, Police, Save Ma. Say it?"

"Dead, Truck, Run, Police, Save Ma."

She might just not have to go for Plan C after all.

 _Murder-suicide._

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 14:28._

We practice for many many hours. No rest at all because Ma says this is our last and only chance in escape and we have to be super duper perfect.

 _Not one mistake._

She says she can't keep fighting this deadend battle of survival, she has no energy left. _Seven years, Christopher. Seven years._ I have no idea what she means by that but I just nod and agree with her.

 _Yes, Ma. Of course._

I tell her I'll go wherever she goes when she asks me if I want to. Just me and Ma together. I don't want to be anywhere without Ma. So, I say yes to Ma.

We practice pretending being dead for one more time again. I'm so tired of it. I don't tell her that. I lie down on the edge of the rug and Ma rolls me up like we practiced.

I'm all rolled up tight now. Squished like canned beans and even like sardines. But not really because it's only one of me.

Rug smells funny, dusty, old and something ... _different_ , I don't know.

Ma picks rug up with me hiding inside, I'm squished a bit looser than last try. Last was too tight and I couldn't unroll myself no matter how hard I tried. I couldn't breathe too, so I shout for Ma to make me breathe again. "Ma! Help! Ma!"

I don't want to be real for real dead.

She says I'm like a long, heavy tree trunk, she grunts and I think it's bad wrist being bad to Ma. We don't stop for break, though.

Ma says he'll lift me easily because he's much strong than her.

" _He'll_ carry you out the backyard and probably into his garage, like this-" I feel us going around room. I don't move one bit. "Or maybe over _his_ shoulder like this-" she breathed deep and groans, and I'm carried.

"Is it a long way to garage?"

"What?"

My words are being lost in rug. I sound like an alien on TV. Ma can't hear me.

"Wait," says Ma, "I think _he'll_ probably put you down a couple of times, to like open doors and stuff." she sets me down, my head first.

" _Ow_."

"Christopher." she warns me.

 _Oops._

I'm dead. I'm not suppose to make any noise.

"Sorry."

It's mistake number three and I think Ma has had enough of me messing up.

" _He'll_ drop you onto the flatbed of his truck, like this."

She drops me - _thump!_

I bite my tongue to not yelp.

"Stay still. Very still. Okay? No matter what happens."

"Okay."

No saying a word and no moving at all, I have to remember to do all those things at the same time because if I don't, _he_ will know I am actually alive and _he'll_ be so mad.

Ma doesn't want to tell me what _he'll_ do to me when I asked. She only smiled but it's a weird kind of smile like she's pretending too.

Ma is very good at that.

But I think I know what _he'll_ do.

It's not good things and that's why Ma is not telling me.

"Then, _he'll_ get to the front of _his_ truck and start driving." she tells me.

"To where?"

"I don't know. Perhaps somewhere no one can see _him_ dig a hole, like a forest or something. I don't know. But the thing is, you won't get that far, because as soon as the engine starts - it'll be loud and buzzing and shaking like this..." she blows a raspberry on me through rug.

Normally, raspberries would make me laugh but not today. "And remember that's when you start getting out of the rug. Go ahead. Try it again."

I wiggle, but I can't, it's still too tight. I don't know how to do this escape. It's too difficult.

"Let me out."

"Just wait. You're not even trying."

"Let me out now!"

"If you keep panicking," Ma hisses, "then, _our_ plan isn't going to work."

I'm crying again. "It's not _our_ plan! It's only _yours_."

I don't like this plan. It's even scarier than the first because what if I can't do plan right and he sees me alive!

Ma unrolls me and I'm breathing again. She puts her hands on my face and says my name but I push her off.

"Chris-"

"No!"

"Listen."

I don't want to. Ma always gets to talk and I listen to her, always, but when I'm the one talking, she doesn't - she never listens to me. So, I cover my ears shut with my hands.

"I know it's scary. But we have to try."

"No, we don't. Not till I'm six."

Ma massages her head like she does when she's tired and frustrated and inhales. "There's a thing called foreclosure."

"What?"

I'm staring at her, so confused, because I don't know what a foreclosure is.

"It's too hard to explain." she lets out her breath. "Shortly, _he_ doesn't really own _his_ house, the bank does. Okay? And since _he_ lost _his_ job, soon _he'll_ run out of money to pay them and when _he_ stops paying, the bank...they'll get very angry and they will try to take _his_ house away."

I wonder how a bank would do it.

 _Maybe with a giant bulldozer or a digger?_

"With _he_ inside house?" I ask, "Like Dorothy when the tornado picked her house up?"

"Listen to me." Ma shakes her head and holds my elbows hard, squeezing that they nearly hurt. "What I'm trying to tell you is that _he_ will never let anybody come anywhere near _his_ house because then they'll find room, won't they?"

"And they'll rescue us!" I shout.

I like this plan better.

"No. No, _he'll_ never let that happen."

"Why? What would _he_ do?"

Ma's sucking in her lips so she doesn't have any. "The point is, we need to escape before that happens. You're going to get back in the rug now and practice some more until you get the knack of the wiggling out part."

"No."

"Christopher, please-"

"I'm scared." I shout. "I won't do it. Not ever. I hate you."

Ma's breathing funny, fast and slow altogether and she sits down on floor. "That's all right."

 _How is it all right if I hate her?_

Her hands are on her tummy now. I think it's aching again like all morning. I think it's a baby like I was. But I don't know how a baby get there. I didn't see a him or her zoom down skylight.

Maybe in the night a he or she did.

"I brought you into room...It really wasn't my intention to. But I did it and I never once have been sorry."

I stare at her and she stares back.

"I brought you here and tonight I'm going to get you out."

I see Ma's tears spilling down her face. I hug her, feeling her hot tears on my neck.

"You're the one who matters. Just you."

I shake my head till I feel my brain shaking too, because there's no just me without Ma.

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 16:48._

Since it's a special day today, our last day in room, for lunch/dinner, I get to choose what we eat.

I actually don't believe it is our last day. Maybe plan won't work like yesterday.

Ma says a lot of things and sometimes, I don't believe it. Mostly I do.

I'm suddenly so starving hungry, so I choose sausages and rice and eggs to eat.

That's like three lunches together!

Ma tells me more about how our plan will be in the outside. "So, _he'll_ be driving down the street. You're at the back, the open space of the truck. _He_ won't be able to see you, okay? Remember that. Grab hold of the edge of the truck, so you don't fall over, because the truck will be moving fast, like this." she pulls me and wobbles me side to side. "It's dangerous but you'll be fine. Okay. Then, when _he_ puts the brakes on, you'll feel sort of, sort of a...you'll be yanked the other way as the truck slows down. That means there's a stop sign ahead. It's where drivers have to stop for a while."

"Even _him_?"

"Oh, yeah." Ma nods, "So, as soon as you feel like the truck is hardly moving, then it's safe for you to jump over the side."

And into TV world. I don't say it, I know that's wrong. I think it only.

"You'll land on the pavement, it'll be hard like-" she looks around, then stomps on floor with her foot. "Like this but rougher. And then you run, run as fast as you can. And don't you ever look back. Just run."

This time it's us who are the cunning tricksters.

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 17:02._

"All that matters is, you don't let _him_ catch you. Oh, but try and get onto the sidewalk if you can, the part of the road that's higher, so a car won't hit you. And you need to be screaming as well, then somebody will help you."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Anybody." she shrugs her shoulders.

People in outside have such weird names.

"Who's anybody?"

"Just run up to the first person you see. Or - no, it'll be pretty late. Maybe there'll be nobody out walking."

She's biting her nails. _Germs can kill_ _you!_ I remember what Ma always tells me. But I don't tell her about naughty, icky germs. "If you don't see anybody, you'll have to wave at a car to make it stop, and tell the people inside that you and your Ma have been kidnapped. Or if there's no cars - _oh, gosh_ \- I guess you'll have to run up to a house, any house that's got lights on and bang at the door as hard as you can with your fists. But only a house with lights on, not an empty one. It has to be the front door, will you know which that is?"

"The one at the front."

She nods.

"Try it now." Ma waits. "Talk to them just like you're talking to me. Pretend I'm them. What would you say?"

"Me and you have-"

"No," she sighs, "Pretend I'm the people in the house, or in the car, or on the sidewalk, tell them you and your Ma..."

I try again. "You and your Ma-"

"No, say, _'My Ma and I...'_ "

"You and me-"

She puffs her breath. She look pretty angry at me. "Never mind, just give them the note. Is the note still with you?"

I nod. It's in my pants pocket.

"Fantastic. If by any chance you drop it, you can just tell them, _'I've_ _been kidnapped.'_ Say it, just like that."

"I've been kidnapped."

"Say it good and loud so they can hear you."

"I've been kidnapped." I shout.

"Wonderful. And they'll call the police," she scratches her chin, "and I guess the police will look in all the backyards till they find _Room_? Do they have the resources and time to do that?"

I don't know if Ma knows what Police will do. Her face isn't very certain. She's the Ma. _Why is she asking me?_ She should be the one who knows all the answers.

"With the blowtorch." I reminded her and she squeezes my palms. The Police will cut a hole through door and get Ma out.

We practice and practice some more.

 _Dead, Truck, Wiggle Out, Jump, Run, Find Somebody, Note, Police, Save Ma._

That's nine things. Not a few.

I don't think I can remember all of them in my head all at the same time. Ma says of course I can, I'm her a superhero. I'm five.

I wish I was still four.

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 17:13._

"Is _he_ coming or no?"

 _She don't know._

 _He_ still isn't back and that's worrying her because she needs to do this plan today. Today and only today because it's sudden courage that she has and she's afraid it might cower away tomorrow or, perhaps, even sooner.

Or maybe she just really doesn't want to go for Plan C.

But _he_ said _he'd_ be back with something stronger for Christopher.

 _Doesn't that mean he'll come back?_

Then, why isn't _he_ here already. _He_ doesn't even have anything better to do. _He_ clearly doesn't have any hobbies. _He_ surely doesn't have a family. _He_ doesn't have a job and she knows that one's for certain because she had asked. And what's most fucked up is _he's_ probably right there, outside, in _his_ house, so close yet so far away from them.

 _That bastard!_

Christopher is scorching with fever.

 _Well, supposedly._

It's about twenty-one hours since he last showed up.

 _He_ doesn't care.

Somehow and she can't understand why she keeps on hoping for the fact that one day, _he'd_ magically change and care for them.

Maybe not them, just Christopher.

After all, he's still _his_...

 _Doesn't that mean something?_

 _Doesn't he feel something?_

Somehow and she desperately wants to know why, she would hope _he_ would the very least have an ounce of empathy for what _he's_ done to them...to her.

She had hope.

Well, hope is a demon. It convinces you to believe in something better, persuades you the outcome will be favourable, and whispers eagerly in your ear that the miracle you so desperately need will happen. Then, it crushes you. Hope only leaves you fallen and bleeding in its aftermath, nothing more than a pile of misery and desolation.

"How can he not? If _he_ has the slightest conscience..."

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 17:34._

"Dead, Truck, Wiggle Out, Jump, Run, Somebody, Note, Police, Save Ma."

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 17:35._

"Dead, Truck, Wiggle Out, Jump, Run, Somebody, Note, Police, Save Ma."

They've been chanting for hours. Her throat is scratchy and it's uneasy when she swallows what feels like a stack of sandpaper.

She's tired. Her head has a life of it's own. Beating in the confines of collagen and calcium. But she can't quit just yet.

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 17:49._

"Ma?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's do it tomorrow night instead."

She leans over and hugs me tight. That means no.

I'm hating her again a bit.

"I'd do it for you, if i could."

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 18:05._

"It's time." she says with a smile that's making her bottom lip tremble. She doesn't cry, though, doesn't want Christopher to think that this ought to be a crying matter. Although, in all honesty, she thinks, it should be, with the both of them hysterical and clinging onto each other because this plan can only go either way and the other would result in them never seeing each other ever again. _Forever is a long time_. But she doesn't want to further scare Christopher, so, she left her tears to coil and gather, never dare let them fall.

It's time to say goodbye to her baby, her prince, her life, her love, her creation.

Hers and only hers.

And she can clearly see his reluctance when she said he needed to get into position, but he complied, not without slumped and defeated shoulders and a smile that shouldn't be upside down. She can't blame him, that too is her stance in life.

 _Defeat. Compliance. Irrationality._

They need to get out of here first, before _he_ decides to kill them.

He'll forever be in her heart and spirit.

She hopes he doesn't think that she never loved him ( _She knows she can be tough and mean at times. She ignores him too_.), because, she does. _Oh, she absolutely does_. She's done so much for him just to exist and survive. But sometimes it's difficult to love someone the way you should and are intended to when all you see and are reminded of is the reason for all your heart aches. Because as much as she denies it, wants to deny it, he's still a fragment of _him_. There's still that resemblance and she hates having to bare them everyday.

It's not his fault, she knows. She doesn't blame him.

"I love you." she hovers over him, sinking in every inch and every corner of his porcelain fragile existence, muttering something even she can't quite understand.

Her eyes slides up and down his tiny body, counting each perfect finger and toe and limb and feature and imprintimg them in her mind.

She'll never forgive herself if she ever forgets.

He's perfect. He's so perfect. So small but still so full of life and so fucking _perfect_. She did the unthinkable. She became a mother. A good one, she really really thinks. This time, she believes that she is. He's perfect and it's all because of her. Her and only her and without a second of anyone's help.

She was a mother all by herself.

"What?"

She doesn't say a word.

She just leans over closer, doesn't even kiss him, only touches her cheek to his and memorising his scent.

He won't let go of her too.

"I love you, Ma, to the moon and back and infinity and beyond."

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 18:13._

"What if _he_ opens rug?" she hears Christopher's small voice through the carpeting. "Just to look at me dead?"

"You know how hitting is bad?"

"Yeah."

"Well, tonight is a special case. I really don't think _he_ will because _he'll_ be in a hurry to-to get the whole thing done, but if by any chance _he_ does, you hit _him_ as hard as you can."

He gasps.

"Kick _him_ , bite _him_ , claw _his_ eyes out. Anything to get away."

She can't believe she's advocating violence to a five year old. Old-Addison doesn't believe in physical force. New-Addison sees it as the only way to survive.

"Am I allowed to kill _him_ even?"

 _Yes._

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 18:19._

Dead, Truck, Run, Somebody - no, it's Wiggle Out, then Jump, Run, _Somebody_ , Note, Save Ma.

But I forgot Police before Save Ma. It's too complicated. I'm going to mess Plan all up and _he_ will bury me real for real and Ma will be waiting always and always waiting.

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 18:41._

 _Beep beep..._

 _He's_ finally here. She hates herself even more for thinking _he'd_ for once be a decent human being and come a time much earlier because Christopher is ill.

 _Almost seven_ , she glances at the clock behind her bitterly and her heart drops to the pit of her stomach at the fact. It's almost seven in the evening, she bites the insides of her cheeks to keep herself from exploding or better yet, saying something that might get her bad wrist snapped or herself slammed into the wall again, that just shows _he_ doesn't care if anything were to really happen to them.

 _Why does she constantly do this to herself?_

Think better of others, or think one could change in a crisis, reason with their actions or in this case, lack there of, and tells herself this and that and whatever, only to be met with disappointment afterwards.

It's really her to blame. It's old habits that landed her here in the first place. Old habits don't die and so doesn't she.

Stubborn.

 _Will she miss that - startling to the point of almost suffering a painful heart attack because of that fucking sound?_

No.

She sighs deeply, shaking away the sudden vertigo that's making her brain spin in circles.

 _What took him so awfully long?_

Granted, it's earlier than the nine o'clock _he_ usually shows but there's an emergency tonight. It's different than all the other nights. She expected more. Perhaps conscience and empathy that's never been there. Always expects more from others. Always wants more than they can give.

 _Old habits. Old habits._

If she ever finds herself thinking about this dump or even this man - _no, monster_ \- once she's out, she'd better shoot herself, because then that would be proof she's completely gone mental.

"I love you. I need you to always remember that." she whispers as she drapes her arms over the rug, resting her forehead against the thick woven material while droplets after droplets spill from it's confines.

The sheer dread and anxiety that this could and might be their last time together finally and ultimately sinks in and she sobs with agony only a mother can understand. She's unable to control the tears because there is that possibility, that chance, that fifty-fifty and with her luck, it's almost always one hundred percent.

Christopher jumps at the extruding sound, almost shouts at his mother to abort this silly plan, but when she wraps her arms around rug and places her face over his chest, whispers and cries real and not pretend tears, it's only then he realises that he also really _really_ needs for plan to work this time, so he can finally see his mother smile an genuine happy smile.

He knows for whatever reason she has, she really doesn't want to stay in room any longer and he shall do this for her.

He will not make any mistakes. He will make her happy.

 _What's a little scare if his mother will be happy forever and ever?_

She doesn't move, just stares straight ahead. She don't think her heart's even pounding anymore. Not like always. Not like yesterday or even this morning. She can't seem to feel her heart in her chest right now. It's probably fluttering so fast that it's flying high up in the sky. Perhaps it's because she's been scared to death countless of times already that this particular chance isn't that death-defying to her anymore.

But it's heavy, her chest, and she's trying not to draw too much attention to the way she's breathing, because it's aching with fear. And since he's a predator, it's what he senses, smells.

She hears the code being pinned one more time, then waits for the unsurprisingly loud bang.

 _Boom!_

He stays extra still when he hears _his_ voice.

"Here you go." _he_ says to his mother, walking closer.

 _He_ sounds so calm and so unaware of their plan. That's good. That means their plan is right on track.

"Antibiotics. Just a day past expiration. For a kid, you break them in half, the guy said."

 _A day past expiration?_

Expired medicine.

 _Where does he even get these crap?_

 _How heartless can he be?_

 _He_ treats them worse than animals.

Even after all that, even after hearing _his_ footsteps, _his_ breathing, _his_ cheerful tone and innuendo, she still doesn't make a move or pay any incentive to acknowledge _his_ presence.

She just sits on her knees and doesn't answer _him_.

"Where is he? In the cupboard?"

He - that's him, Christopher thinks. _He's_ talking about him now.

"Is he in the rug? Are you crazy? Wrapping a sick kid up like that?"

 _He's_ kneeling right behind her now, all solid against her hunched and broken posture. Breathing so close that she can smell the bitter and sour stale tobacco in _his_ every exhale, one that's sitting, then curdling in her stomach - twisting and churning - and she bites down on the urge to spill.

"You didn't came back like you promised." she whispers, staring at the spot on the rug where her tears have gathered and puddled and seeped. "He got worse in the night and this morning, he wouldn't wake up."

And then, silence.

Mutually, they stopped breathing - for very different reasons, of course. She had feared that she might have been whispering so softly that _he_ hadn't heard what she was saying because _he_ didn't say a word or mutter a sigh or stutter a laugh to mock her or boast at her loss but she knows _he_ had once _he_ placed a hand on her forearm and tugs, not particularly harsh, for her to stand up.

And she does. Hesitantly as she rakes, every muscle in her body protested when _he_ drags her off the floor, because she isn't too sure what _he's_ about to do with her.

 _Is she next?_

But _he_ just oddly ran _his_ hands over the goosebumps erupting on her arms, still sharing this close intimacy in silence.

Shivering, she's even colder now and she clings onto the jacket she remembered to put on earlier.

That, this is messing with her brain, because... _does he even care? Is this, whatever this is, genuine?_

Still, she doesn't flinch, refuses to look _him_ in the eyes, only because she fears the truth will be clearly painted in her bloody orbs, so she continue to stare at the floor while _he_ attempts... _this._

 _To comfort her?_

Again, he doesn't say anything to her and she watches his hands glide up and down the expense of her twig-like arms and watches as tears slide down her face because she doesn't like this calm _he's_ making her feel. She's not suppose to be comfortable.

He still says nothing, though.

Then, _he_ mutters a chuckle and shrugs _his_ shoulders at her, finally slapping her back to reality and telling herself that _he's_ lost _his_ humanity a long time ago.

"Are you sure?"

" _Am I sure?_ " she hisses. This time, she flinches backwards and twists her way out of _his_ hold and her head jerks sharply up as she glares at _him_ with narrowed eyes. "What do you think? Of course, I'm sure."

She doesn't add anything provoking, just ends her sentence there because for their plan to work, _he_ really needs to pity her.

 _Don't move. Don't move. Stay stiff, stiff, stiff._

"Oh, no." _he_ closes the distance between them once again, places a finger under her chin, and looks into her eyes. She stays perfectly still during the whole ordeal, face-to-face, inches apart, just staring back at _him_ without giving out any hints. "Oh, no." _he_ repeats, then huffs a long exhale ( _perhaps in relief because a liability is dead and that didn't cause him to do much, if not anything at all._ ) and ran _his_ hands through his hair.

"That's just terrible. You poor girl. Poor you." _he_ blinks at her, an expression of pellucid smeared across _his_ face, and then, the harsh lines around _his_ eyes softened and _he_ steps towards her, arms outstretched.

She all but freezes, gawking at the opened arms.

 _What is he doing?_

Her heart leaps into her throat when _he_ grabs and wraps her in _his_ arms, holding her gently against _his_ chest. Her gasp muffles against him as he strokes her hair. _What is he doing?_ "Guess it must have been something really serious. The pills wouldn't have worked anyway." she feels _his_ words vibrate against her. She feels the anxiety wanting to spill out of her chest.

 _You think!_

She thinks it, doesn't say it because she doesn't need her smart mouth to get her into any more trouble.

 _Not today._

She forces out the words that have been stuck in her throat and a plea escapes. A whisper from a grieving mother. Someone who's given up on hope. "If you had came sooner...you killed him, my baby."

 _He_ showed her the evil in this world when _he_ snatched her off the street.

"You killed him."

 _He_ made her _his_ prisoner for seven long years when _he_ imprisoned her. _And what for?_

"You killed him."

Her voice grew louder with strength and anger. "You killed my baby."

 _He_ raped for days until she gave up fighting, sees no point and compiles because only then it doesn't totally feel like torture.

"You killed Christopher!"

She steps out from _his_ embrace.

 _He_ killed her the day _he_ hid her away from the world.

"C'mon now. Calm down."

"How can I calm down when Christopher is-"

Christopher hears her breathing becoming strange. Her words come out as if she's gulping for air and only words come out. His mother is pretending so well that if he doesn't know about plan, he thinks he'll definitely fall victim to her plot.

 _His_ arms tightens around her and she feels a steam of panic rise in her throat. She shakes her head, wants _him_ to stop touching her, stop trying to make her feel better because none is working and raises one hand to push futilely against _his_ chest, trying to twist her body away.

"Let me see him." he let her go for only a second and she breathes as he attempts to bend down but before he can touch her son, she shouts, "Don't you dare touch him."

 _Stay tight and stiff, stiff, stiff._

"Okay. Okay." _he_ holds his hands up in mock surrender.

Tears gathers in her eyes again, each one slides quickly down her cheeks and her breath hitches with sobs. "Addison," _No. No. No. What is he doing to her?_ She hates hearing her name being said like that. She hates it when _he_ says her name like that. Like _he_ knows her. Like they're the best of friends. Like it might just make her feel good. Like Derek would. She only hears his voice whenever she hears her name. _Addison_. _Addie darling_. Carefully, _he_ holds her twisting body, still against _his_ own and tilts her face up to _his_. "Addison, you can't keep him here."

"Let go of me!" she continues to struggle, weakly twisting and trying to pull away from _his_ strong, immobilising grip. A string of hushed pleas tumbles out of her mouth.

"Christopher! Let go!" she could hear the panic rising in her voice, could feel her breath getting shallower and slower and the strength draining from her arms and leg.

It's real tears that she's crying. She's frustrated that _he_ won't let go of her, scared that she might not have her baby back.

"I know, it's a terrible thing. But I've got to take him away now."

"No."

He killed Christopher.

Soon her struggles died down into hysterical cries and she feels his grip loosen as he draw circles around her back.

 _Why?_

She's got _him_ exactly where she wants _him_ to be.

"How long has it been? This morning, you said? Maybe in the night? He must be starting to - it's not healthy, keeping him here. I better take him and, and find a place."

 _Bingo!_

Nodding, "Okay. Okay. But not in the backyard." she says. Hot tears still spilling down in torrents.

"Okay."

"If you put him in the backyard-Please, you shouldn't, it's too close. If you bury him there," she points at one of the four walls, "I'll still be able to hear him crying." her voice shook and she covers her mouth with one shaky hand.

"I said okay."

"You have to drive him far, all right?"

"All right. Give him-"

"No. Not yet." she sank back to the floor. "You mustn't disturb him."

"I'll keep him the way he is."

"Don't you dare lay a finger-"

"I won't."

"Promise me, you won't look at him with your filthy eyes." she spits the words laced with disgust.

"Okay."

" _Promise_."

"I promise." _he_ affirms.

 _Dead, dead, dead._

"Because I'll know," she says over her shoulder, "I'll know if you put him in the backyard. And I'll scream every time that door opens, I'll tear this place apart, I swear I'll never be quiet again. You'll have to kill me too to shut me up."

"Okay. Okay. Just stop it with the hysterics, alright? It's not like we can't make another one."

Her breath catches in her throat at _his_ remark and a strangled cry tore itself from her lungs.

It's a reminder that there _is_ another one.

Before she could even lift herself off the cold floor, _he's_ assisting her in doing so when she feels ten thick fingers dig into both arms, hoisting her up on her feet, then pushing her to the side.

"I'm going to pick him up now and carry him to the truck, okay?"

She gulps, uselessly blinks back tears and she wipes them away. "Find somewhere nice," she says, "Somewhere with trees and..."

She's crying so much she can hardly think.

"Sure."

Gasping, she presses her palm to her lips and clamps down on her greying skin until it breaks, until she welcomes copper, until she watches _him_ lift the rug onto his shoulder and sees Christopher's crown, until _he_ tells her to wait for _him_ and not to do anything stupid, until she hears the _beep-beep_ for what she hopes will be her last, and then still continues as the enigmatic silence engulfs her.

 _What have she done?_

"Come back."

* * *

 ** _Seven Years Ago_**

* * *

It was the smell that awoke her.

A putrid mixture of Chinese takeout, burned matches, and faint urine edged towards her nostrils, shut eyes squinting and lips parting slightly as the rancid scent danced upon her dullened senses.

 _How long has she been unconscious?_

It was cold underneath her body; of that she was sure. Fingertips edged along the raised bumps of the stone surface; slow, deliberate, searching. She furrowed her eyebrows as her fingers roamed over a thick liquid, her hand rising upwards as her eyes gradually flitted open.

Although the entire room was bathed in darkness, she could still make out the outline of her hand. The colour was dark against the pads of her skin; she squinted faintly, attempting to make out the exact colour staining her pale fingertips, before the stinging throbbing at the base of her skull had her moaning slightly.

With the little strength she could command, she lifted her body upwards, fingers running over the aching spot. The area proved to be far too tender; she winced with pain, willing the pounding in her head to settle. The muscles of her body strained tightly.

 _Where is she?_

It was as if she had been rudely awoken from a most deep slumber, body yearning for more rest, head feeling achingly heavy.

She looked around the blackened room as the roots of fear stemmed deep within her. She cried softly as a shot of pain rushed from the sore spot at her skull. Her legs attempted to pull themselves up, but she fell to the floor as the muscles departed and shook underneath her weight.

 _This isn't her floor. This isn't her home._

Her heart bang, a staccato rhythm against her chest as a faint dripping noise grew to become the only sound she could hear. Palms feeling around the floor, _it's so cold_ , she dragged her body along the cement, as she neared iron bars.

She hissed in agony as an unknown jagged edge sliced into her ankle, the flesh feeling warm with stings as crimson liquid weeped out of the cut.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed her body to continue, ignoring the stinging as her own blood pooled at her ankle. Wrapping shaking palms around the chilled surface of iron, she licked her cracked lips, nearly gagging as she encountered the faint taste of blood at the corner of her mouth.

"Help…" she murmured, voice hoarse and weak, her eyes attempting to look out into the shadows looming before her for a hint of life. "Help…me…"

No salvation appeared before her.

The dripping continued. Her forehead pressed against the cold iron, the frigid surface a very soothing sensation to the overwhelming pain growing at the base of her skull.

The sound of footsteps had her eyes lifting with hope.

And yet, a flash of red fabric was all she needed to forgo her pain and begin screaming.

* * *

He dragged her, dragged her by the hair, by the long fingers that were clawing at his wretched face with the insanity of a caged animal.

She was screeching, begging, shrieking with the collection of dragoon surrounding her, like an order of a commanded army - to let her go.

She's innocent. For whatever reason he had brought her here, she didn't do it. She's a good person with a good heart. She can prove her innocence, can't he listen for a _mere_ moment?

She didn't do anything... _wrong?_

Derek.

 _Did he do this?_

 _Is this what it is?_

He hired a hit man to get back at her.

 _To kill her?_

Oh, he was so angry and blinded by what she had done. Anything is possible, if today is any inkling. But it's Derek. He would never hurt her, at least not to this and such extent.

She was thrashing between limbs, hair wild, silk flying, limbs tugging, as he stepped forward to open the door.

This has to be Derek teaching her a lesson. This has to be. _This has to be_.

But this doesn't make any sense.

She doesn't get herself involved in anything illegal. _Never_. She's a doctor. She helps and saves lives. She's good. She's made one mistake. One. Just one.

This has to be the only sensible explanation, that this relates to what her husband had walked in to last night.

She won't die because this is Derek's doing. He won't let this man kill her. Only to shake her up.

Torture, she could take, she figures she deserves a little reality check.

Derek loves her.

 _Right?_

She just needed to be taught a lesson.

"Please, please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I get it! I won't do it again! Derek, where are you? You can stop now! I promise I won't do it again! Please! I just want to go home!" she begged with tears in her eyes, as he, with the firmest of straight-lined mouths, grabbed a fistful of her red strands, and yanked her by the hair down a hallway.

This has to be Derek. But every fibre of her being is screaming at her to stop and wake up from her wishful thinking sopor and asses the likelihood of this being Derek's doing.

She continued to kick and beat, fingernails digging into the carpet, then, heart soaring with joy as she managed to pull out of his grasp and crawl away from her stoic captor on hands and knees.

However, her cries became hysterical as his long arms found her waist and pulled her off the floor.

"Nooo!"

She landed with a shriek against the crimson carpet before her eyes. Her knees were bruised, her arms sported faint scratches, and her face was damp with tears and sweat as she slowly looked up, hollow pearls meeting the smirking face of one she knows is her end.

* * *

 _Friday. 20:07._

She's restless as she paces, and she looks back up at the clock every time she meets the far end wall.

Still fifty seven minutes past seven.

Nothing's changed yet.

She's still in here.

Her fingers circles around the fresh bruises on her wrist fierce in their agony and her body adamant in its protest. Yet she doesn't stop.

She takes a gasping breath, letting the salty air burn her throat as she fights to keep herself together. She doesn't have the energy or time to fall apart another time.

So, she picks on the side of her nail with her teeth, hears Bizzy's voice echoing in her ear, telling her that a lady doesn't bite her nails.

 _Addison, dear, manners._

She continues to beat the odds, but the odds are never in her favour, _are they?_

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 20:32._

She's so dizzy.

She looks up at the door from across the couch. She's curled cautiously in the corner, every limb arranged strategically, so as to stop the chill from creeping in beneath the covers, threading through her clothes to spread ice along her skin.

He's gone. _He's_ gone. They've been gone for over two hours now.

 _What is going on out there? Is Christopher okay_ _? Is he running away? Is he finding her?_

 _Is he...is he still alive?_

Their plan is working. _God! She hopes so_. He's safe. He's safe, she chants to convince.

He's safe.

 _God! She hopes so._

She feels the sudden, agonising need to have Christopher back in room with her again, to have him in her arms for just a minute, to tell him she loves him, or at least, to say goodbye one last time. But she knows she'll never get to have that sixty seconds ever again.

Her time had came and went and she thought she was ready to say goodbye.

But _he's_ got Christopher in the big and scary world and the what-ifs running through her head aren't pleasant.

 _Don't think about those, Addison. Don't._

But, really, she'd rather suffocate in the what-if until that noose tightens around her neck, because those are the most likely scenario to reason why no one's here yet.

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 21:12._

Another long moments of silence passes, one that she have _snailed_ through the past seven years, and now it seems to be _snailing_ her along even slower.

This has to be the longest day ever. It just has to be. She can't remember the last tine she's had a day so laborious, so frustrating, so infuriating.

It's making her head about to burst. Literally.

Oh, she hopes Christopher remembers what they've practice.

He will. He does. He's being so brave.

But she gave him so much to remember. He's only five. _Will he remember them all?_

"Oh, no," she snaps her eyes open, "What have I done?"

He can't possible remember them all.

"No. No. No." she struggles to breathe and marches towards the metal door.

There must be another way. There has to be. She's not going to believe it.

 _He_ can't. _He_ wouldn't do it. He's only a child. Christopher is innocent in all this.

 _How long has it been?_

It's been too long.

"Christopher?"

She let her head fall back against the cool surface of the heavy door and closes her eyes, pressing her ear hard against it, listening for anything at all.

Nothing.

Shaking her head, "Christopher? _You_? Somebody? Answer me please! We were just acting! _You!_ Please, he's not really dead! Please bring him back to me!"

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

She hadn't heard silence quite like this since the day Christopher was born and it terrifying.

 _How had she ever managed the loud silence?_

Clutching onto the alloy, she collapses and slides down as her legs buckles underneath her. "Please! Please bring him back! I'm sorry! We'll never do it again! I'll never ask for anything ever again! Just this once, give me back my baby!"

"Please! Please!"

She needs Christopher.

She's screaming over and over and in a loop. Like a broken record. She's screaming past the rawness and crackle in her throat. It's blood she tastes. She's screaming long after her face turns a shade so red she fears her head might explode. It sure feels as though. She screams past the point of no return.

She knows _he's_ out there. _He's_ burying Christopher alive in the backyard. He's so small. _What was she thinking?_

"Stop it! Please!" she slams her fists at the door.

And she's next.

 _Well, at least they'll be together._

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 21:47._

Blazing tears aligns their way down her sunken cheek, trekking burning fiery paths over her greying skin while sobs shakes her body.

 _Why didn't she listen to Christopher? Why?_

She wraps her arms around herself as a river of tears attempts to wash her away.

She can't move - never lifts her face off her wet palms - can't breathe, she's frozen, cold as ice, blind and mute and dumb and swimming in a dark sea of terror while choking on her own fear.

All she's well aware of is the red hot pain burning in the centre of her body. It hurt so much. Like none other. It hurts more than loving Derek. It's hurts different. She has never felt pain this real. Mourning a loss. She can't remember the last time anything had felt this real.

Her baby is dead and it's all because of her impetuous behaviour.

 _Why couldn't she have waited?_

Synapses wakes and hails bullets inside her head and every message and every word screams her son's name.

 _Christopher!_

It's intense, debilitating pain and terror and over it all hung a crushing sense of loss, like something inside her had been ripped away in jag and she will never be whole again.

Waves of grief washes over her and she knows she can spend the rest of her life weeping and the pain will never seize.

The only thing that can heal this deep, churning ache inside her is Christopher.

She needs her son, needs him in her arms, needs to hold his tiny, sweaty hands, needs Christopher's grubby fingers twist in her own.

She needs to hear her son's small, chattering voice, his shrieks of laughter, needs to see him smile.

She needs to bury her face in Christopher tangled hair and hear him breathe while he sleeps.

She needs the weight of Christopher's head on her chest.

She needs Christopher's skinny arms wrapped tight around her waist.

She needs to put her cheek next to Christopher's and whisper that she loves him, that she can never leave him behind, that it is physically impossible.

Now that itself is impossible. She can't even do that because...because he's gone.

It's a rotation of sobbing, then screaming, then banging on the door to no avail.

All she sees is Christopher's face flashing right before her.

Their love and memories together.

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 22:03._

She's going to freeze to death in here.

Clutching onto something near, she hauled herself to her feet and puts a foot in front of the door, heading for the bed.

Once there, she curls in on herself, pulling the plain white sheet to her chin and tries to think of anything but Christopher.

It's hard not to.

The fact that she's alone makes her think of Christopher. The fact that she's shivering beneath two barriers of blankets reminds her that Christopher must be so cold underneath all that soil.

She squeezes her eyes shut, but all she can see in her mind is his face.

"Christopher, you're being so brave right now. And I know you're trying your best out there, and I'm so proud of you. Ma's too scared to be brave for you right now, so you've got to be brave for the both of us. Wiggle out. Find someone to call the police. Then, come back to me, sweetheart. Please just come back to me."

For the sake of a happily ever after, again she is single-handedly destroying what's best in her life.

She sighs and peels her eyes open, stares through the panes of the skylight, watching the sweep of droplets from the rain earlier this afternoon.

So devastating and beautiful, the quiet. Killing her softly.

"Be brave." she says one more time under her breath. It's what's keeping her grounded, other than what she sees, what she hopes he's doing.

Christopher jumping out of the truck.

Christopher running up to a someone and showing them the note to bring him back to her.

She praises him for each milestone of success in their plan. "You're doing great baby. Good job."

She just hopes that's what's happening.

 **xxx**

 _Friday. 23:37._

It's not long before the fragile illusion of what her life have reduced to shatters into another million pieces. This time and not like all the other times, this particular juncture, she won't, can't pick up the pieces.

She eally doesn't want to.

And it's really not long before she thinks she hears the pitch of her execution calling out to her.

It's blaring like police sirens.

The sound is an augury of death, shouting at her to stop feeling sorry for herself and just face what she's brought upon herself. Because, really, does she think she can outsmart a psycho?

 _Beep beep..._

That means... _No!_

She must be hallucinating this too.

 _No._

This can't be it. Her life can't end in here.

 _No._

If _he's_ here, then that means their plan didn't work and that entails that Christopher...

 _No. No. No._

The corners of her lips twitches at their own accord, she feels her eyes sting with inevitable tears before her facial muscles contorts and churns. A strangled cry escapes her throat, "Christopher." she gasps the three syllables like a secret, clutching at her chest, where the agony is the rawest.

 _No. No. He can't be. No, she won't believe that._

 _No._

Shame washes over her as the fact dawned on her, that she so desperately wanted to get out of room that she was willing to and actually did danger her son's life.

 _And what for? For a life that's just less crappy than this one?_

She buries her face in her shaky hands and gasps at the contractions in her heart as she hiccups for air. "Please just tell me where..." she tries to speak, thinks she is, but it's only a cluster of mumbles and murmurs that she manages to mutter.

Usually, right about now, she'd be up on her feet, dreading to face _him_ , touch _him_ , speak to _him_. Usually, right by now, she'd tiptoe, bite her tongue, then give _him_ a kiss out of compliance, so as to not get her hair yanked back. Usually, right now, she'd be trying to fill in the cajoling silence with her words and so will he.

 _Usually._

But none of those are happening tonight.

It's quiet.

Because once the _beeping_ has stopped it's purpose, and as she waits some more, the door made a sound she's never heard before.

Her mind must be playing with her again.

The door still doesn't open, like it normally does, and she slowly lifts her face from her hands and blinks at the metal.

 _What the hell is going on?_

 _Why hasn't he open the goddamn door?_

She sits up straight, winces at the discomfort in her abdomen then, and pushes the covers aside to strain to hear the bustling coming from the other side.

She really doesn't get what's happening until it all happened.

The sudden and sharp bang came first.

Loud and rattling all her bones, she screams and hikes her knees to her chest, hugs and hides behind them. Then, everything around her is pitched sharply into darkness when she shuts her eyes.

The whimpering came next.

It filtered and bounced in through the four walls.

The whimpering still continued.

It was her, she realises then.

She takes a deep breath, then another one when the first didn't flicker, tries to focus on exhaling so she could calm her nerves and attempt to stand but it's like her legs have forgotten how.

Another bang. Another scream echoes as she begs for _him_ to just kill her already.

"Just do it. Please don't make me wait. Just do it already."

And yet nothing happens. And yet she doesn't have the courage to lift her head a few inches. And yet she hears footsteps.

Slow and cautious steps. Soft and silent ones.

Two different pairs of steps. No, it's four. It's not _his_. Not the boots _he_ wears.

There's a smell. Or perhaps, there isn't one. _Fear, is it?_ She takes another whiff. It smells like a rainy evening.

She senses a kaleidoscope of flashing lights surrounding her, dying for her to look at the beautiful vibrancy, but she still doesn't open her eyes.

Her ears hears voices. Talking, murmuring, muttering with care, never raising to that decibel of shouting. Static background, wind, shuffling steps, whispers are all assaulting her.

 _Are they all in her head?_

But then, there's a sound calling for someone.

 _Her?_

 _A sound?_

A person's voice that's not Christopher's, nor _his_. Definitely not the two her ears have been bleeding to the last seven years.

"Ma'am, are you alright?"

She stands up so quickly in the little room that she dizzies, she raises a hand in the air to steady her fall and she does, kind of, until her vision blurs and fades and her shoulder connects hard with the floor and explodes as the world reeles around her.

A warm hand is on her cheek and she smiles, reaches out to hold his hand, because she never thought she'd be so lucky to see other faces ever again. "Christopher did it, Derek. He got us out."

She would really love to go home now.

* * *

He slept like the dead that night.

He doesn't think he's ever been so exhausted in his entire life and right after unlocking the door to Meredith's house, he headed straight to bed.

It's probably the flu or a cold that he's coming down with because, lately, he's been feeling so awful. But sick doesn't even come close to describing what's bothering him since he's basically asymptomatic - more or less, other than the stomach cramps and nerves here and there.

He's been blissfully unconscious for a solid six hours, but when his bladder wakes him at half past four in the morning, he reaches for her and realises that he's alone in the bed.

 _Dammit_.

He finds her in the living room, huddled in the corner of the couch. It's warm in the house, but she's wearing his sweater over her flannel pants, and she's wrapped herself in a big wool blanket his Mom had crocheted when she was sick.

The TV is turned on and in mute and for a few seconds, he stands in the archway, just watching her. In the eerie light of the device, she looks so tiny, so delicate and he wonders what's keeping her awake.

"Hey." he finally says, when it seems she's not going to look up and notice him.

She startles badly, nearly sliding right off the couch itself.

"Oh, Derek, you scared me."

"Sorry." he says, hands up, as if showing her he's not a threat.

"No." she shakes her head. "I - what are you doing up?"

He shrugs. "I missed you." he says, "What are you watching?"

He assumes it's a movie - a mindless action flick, or maybe the rest of _Black Mirror_ , or that weird show she likes about clones that he can't quite follow. But when he comes around the couch and looks over her shoulder, he sees - the news?

"The news?" he asks, confused.

"Yeah." she says sadly. "They just found this woman and a kid in Poughkeepsie. Some guy kept them in his shed for seven years. Can you believe it, Derek? Seven years locked in a small room with no civilisation."

 _Seven years._

The question pulls him up short, just a little bit. Meredith has a brilliant mind and a curious one indeed, but he's never known her to take an interest in current events, or international affairs. He didn't realise she'd been paying attention to the news at all.

He certainly hasn't. Not in so long. He's avoided any and all coverage that involves missing people, those who has and had been kidnapped and murdered.

 _The less you know, the happier you will be._

He doesn't like the sight of it, can't bear hearing the sirens and the chaos and doesn't like to hear victims describing what they'd been through.

"Uh, no." he says, sitting down next to her. "That's...horrible."

It really is. But that's how the world is now.

 _Violent. Hostile. Angry. Shitty._

He studies her face, trying to figure out what she's doing, what she's thinking. _Why?_ He realises her cheeks are wet. "Meredith." he whispers, reaching over to brush a tear away.

She shakes her head, shrugging away from him. "It's heartbreaking. I just feel sorry for her. I can't even imagine what they had to go through to get the fuck out of there. Their lives and their family's will never be the same again." she says hoarsely. "It's all so senseless."

"Yeah." he says, because he's not sure what else to say.

 _ **Missing Doctor Found Alive Held in Captivity for Seven Years -**_ the large chunks of letters on the screen reads.

"She's a doctor?" he questions.

 _Or was it 'was a doctor'?_

"Yea. That got me thinking, you know, it could've happened to anyone of us."

 _But it didn't._

He watches her, worry stirring in his stomach, until the vibrating phone on the coffee table diverts his attention, the sound reverberating through the house.

"Oh, your phone has been blowing up all night. I tried waking you up but..." she trails off.

 _But he wouldn't wake up_ \- he finishes the sentence in his head.

"It's fine." he reassures before reaching over for his phone.

As he glanced away from the TV, he catches a glimpse of a profile so achingly familiar, yet not at all.

 _No way._

This is why he doesn't watch the news anymore.

Ignorance is bliss.

It was the hair, he reckons. Her red hair. But Addison's was brighter and shinner.

The child in her arms, who's hidden behind a windbreaker, obscures a good portion of her face, so he can't exactly see what he's so eagerly searching for.

Perhaps it's the red hair that's much too much of a coincidence for him.

He looks back at his phone just as the vibration stops.

 _A New York number._

The room spins; he knows that he's not really moving but he still reaches out for the arm of the couch as if to steady himself.

Piecing the puzzle together, he goes through his missed calls, all of which are from a New York area code, then he snaps his head back to the larger screen ahead.

It was at that moment the universe heard his ample prayers.

It's her.

 _Oh, shit! It's her._

She looks like her. He can't really say for certain that that's his wife because she also looks absolutely nothing like Addison, because the one he's gawking at on TV is so thin and weak.

 _Oh, but it must be her._

But the child...

 _Hers?_

 _His? Mark's?_

But that can't be. The child is so little in her arms, can't be any more than four.

He feels like he can't breathe anymore.

He can't hear what Meredith is saying. His heart is pounding and his arms are tingling and he's certain his legs are going to collapse.

 _When did he even stand up?_

His other hand clutches the phone to his chest, protective of the one thing that works against the cruel reality he's stuck living right now.

"Addison, what happened to you?"

He has to go.

 _But does he really want to see what he's done to her?_

* * *

 ** _Hey, guys! Thank so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed and please leave a review!_**

 ** _Stay tuned for the next chapter._**

 ** _Also, if you want a little more angsty angst, please check out my other story, it's called_** _Find Your Voice._


	10. Chapter 10 - Day 01: Alice in Wonderland

**Chapter 10 - Day 01**

 _Day 01 : Alice in Wonderland. . ._

* * *

 _"We can do anything now."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"Because we're free."_

* * *

 ** _Seven Years Ago_**

* * *

If only Derek had paid more close attention in Professor Miller's lecture in college, he would've known all about the butterfly effect. He would've known what chaos theory is - the science of surprises, of the nonlinear and the unpredictable, the science that explains to expect the unexpected - and how even the smallest cause can have a larger effect, and that even the smallest act of rebellion, can change the course of things in the future.

But even if he had known coming home late tonight, ergo completely failing to meet his wife for their dinner plans would change his life forever, he still could not have made it home on time.

It all _started_ with a key.

A little set of keys that he had forgotten up in his locker. Only realising them missing when he was already rummaging through his pockets at the parking lot. He groaned and cursed because it was basically a five minute walk back to the hospital.

And as he was rushing back upstairs to get them - so he could in turn quickly get into his car and not spend another evening arguing with his wife - a doctor, who worked with her, asked him for a consult on a pregnant woman who had just learned that her baby is anencephalic.

And after a much heated debate on him needing to be home in twenty minutes to watch the game since it was the playoffs season - _oh, who was he kidding?_

Because that just had to be the worst lie told by men to this date. It wasn't even April, to begin with. And for a neurosurgeon, who was suppose to be excellent at thinking on his feet, his was laughable. But it was a lie nevertheless needed to be told because Addison would have him executed if he'd, even by accident, aired out their dirty laundry to another doctor, let alone one that was in the same department as her. Because in everyone's eyes, they needed to be _the_ perfect couple, _the_ relationship everyone dreamed of having.

And he guess they were kind of and in a way the _Brangelina_ of New York Presbyterian - they laughed, they smiled, they kissed in hallways, they lunched together and waited for each other whenever they can. She was his accessory and he was hers. They go together like two peas in a pod.

Oh, but Mark knew. He was the only doctor at the hospital who knew the truth about their seemingly perfect marriage.

And a few short minutes later, he found himself existing the elevator to obstetrics, hurriedly putting one foot in front of the other so he could quickly get the consult over and done with. Because, really, however hard it may be to believe, he still would like to be married by the end of the night. But regardless of the wrath and consequences he might have to face when he gets home, he's not about to let Dr. Sutorius steal his thunder.

Of course, his ego mattered more than his wife.

 _How else did he became one of New York's most sought out surgeons?_

And once he was done consulting, he went back to the parking lot, only having to not remember to get what he went back up for in the place.

 _Shit!_

He was already thirty minutes late, they would never make it to their reservations in time.

 _Shit! Shit!_

And then, as if he wasn't already late enough, there was that rain that further slowed down traffic on 12th.

He swear the city streets were engineered to create traffic congestions, to slow down traffic just to annoy and mess with his life.

 _Shit! Shit! Shit!_

Oh, and to make matters _worser_ than worse, his phone ran out of battery, so he couldn't relied of his fate to Addison - that he'd be home late as usual once again.

 _Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!_

Nonetheless he made it home, almost two hours too late and parked out front. He felt so epically _shitty_ as he climbed up those steps to their front door that he almost - _just almost_ \- wanted to turn back around so he could sit and cower in his car, and wait until the lights in their bedroom were turned off.

But he didn't do any of what instincts had told him to do. He wanted to make it up to her - needed to actually, because that pride thing he has going on, the one that's always stopping him from apologising when he knows he's at fault, is kind of ruining their marriage.

He turned the knob and pushed the door open, almost calling out a _'Honey, I'm home!'_ , but of course he didn't because he sensed _it_.

He sensed _it_ the moment he stepped into his own house. _What?_ To be honest, he doesn't even know what he had sensed - just... _it_. A vibe. The ambience. A feeling. _It_ was different. He doesn't really know what the _it_ was. Or, more accurately, doesn't want to know what the _it_ was.

But he was dead sure that something was off in his home. He felt it in his bones too.

And it all _ended_ with him picking up Mark's leather jacket from his hardwood floor.

But that was further from different and out of place and ordinary because Mark is always leaving his things here and there and everywhere, and yet tonight the piece of clothing that was haphazardly laying on the bottom step of his staircase is all the same and ever so different altogether.

And then, in the darkness of his home with almost all the lights turned on, he heard it - sounds. Sounds that were crawling and chafing and slicing into his flesh, leaving him cold, infected and poisoning his blood too.

Two sets of sounds he has heard before but never together and in sync.

And he clutched the jacket in hand tighter, crescent shaped moon bled into the leather as he made his way upstairs.

The sounds were only getting cruelly evident and louder and louder when he got closer and closer.

Their bedroom.

His favourite sheets.

If it was anywhere else but on his favourite sheets, he thinks he might have just been fine with _it_ and them breaking his soul and entire being.

"Seriously, Addison." It was all he could say as scene after scene panned out it slow motion. But the ache that hit him hard and fast was never-ending.

He opened the door to see too pale flesh on too pale flesh.

He blinked and blinked - _oh, how he wished he was blind_.

He heard Mark cursing, Addison shrieking.

He saw Mark rolled over, still cursing, while Addison grabbed the covers to hold it up to her chest.

He was still frozen standing by the doorway, watching a Mark scurry for his pants, watching an Addison bury into her hands, playing the victim as always, and at that moment, he wasn't thinking about what they had done, the utter betrayal, the shock and pain, he was actually contemplating what he ought to do next.

According to Hollywood, he should already be beating the fuck out of Mark, so much so that he sees God...And maybe, maybe his wife too.

 _Maybe._

He thought about it for another second too long before walking out.

He never was up to par with Hollywood standards anyway, but what he is is a person who runs. And that's exactly what he's doing.

He went outside for a run because... _what else can he do?_

He's a runner. Not a doer.

Maybe even a professional at it.

He felt nothing but pain in the wake of their seemingly perfect marriage.

They're done.

Years of being married together, gone, just like that. Their marriage ended with Mark.

They can't end, though.

Even through the numbness, it was head-throbbing heartache that he had felt. He felt nothing in everything and everything in nothing.

If he had known that that was what he would see when he opened the door to his bedroom, he wouldn't have opened it at all.

He would have done anything to save himself from having to actually witness that, to have that image singed forever into his brain and his heart. On the other hand, if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes and if someone had told him instead, he would've laughed, he wouldn't have believed it to be true.

That was something he had not seen coming.

 _Should he have?_

But he had seen it anyway.

He didn't know and definitely knew at the same time. Perhaps he didn't want to know and believe what he was hearing and that's why he opened the door - to prove his auditory hallucinations wrong.

Tonight, he can't believe he actually planned on righting the wrongs he had done to his wife. He actually was going to apologise. He actually was going to try to be a better husband - _oh, he's aware that he isn't the best._

The tables have turn, she's much _much_ worse of a spouse than him.

And he only stopped sprinting when his legs began to burn and walked slowly back home.

He doesn't want to go back home, though.

 _So, what's the rush?_

Mark was gone by the time he was back. _Thank goodness he had the good sense to leave_. He wasn't sure what he would do then. Addison was clothed. _Thank goodness she had the brains to put on some clothes._

"Derek, I'm sorry."

He caught a glimpse her as he rushed past her, and he was instantly hit with a pang of queasiness.

He can't stand the sight of her.

"Please listen to me." Her cries were lost beneath the thunder that rolled overhead, like a prelude to a great song, impetuous rumbling permeating the air every bit as much as the heavy rain.

 _Oh, the irony._

"Derek."

He was stomping up the stairs very purposefully loud, so he wouldn't have to hear her voice - it's and she's itching the irritation out of him - each and every harsh step voiced his burning rage.

"Derek."

He can't even get himself to look at her - _doesn't or couldn't or wouldn't_ \- he doesn't know which but either way he does not dare give in. He'll vomit if he even so much as glimpse at her; his temper and stomach are churning relentlessly, so he opt to look right past as he marched for the closet.

"Derek! Derek! Derek, listen to me -" Her words were cut midway as a clap of thunder shook the blackened sky which only seemed to have pester and fuel his anger. A boom like that could only mean that the heavens above were about to let down a deluge of misery - he knows it to be true.

It rained heavily too the night his father was murdered.

 _God never liked him too._

"Listen to me. Derek, you can't do this. Please...We have to talk about this."

"No, we don't." he corrected her.

 _What is there to discuss about?_

He saw it with his own eyes. He saw them and he's well aware of what that means. He doesn't need to know anything else other than for what he had witnessed.

"Give me a chance to explain." her voice shook with wary as she watched him reach into the closet.

She winced, then.

"Wait, Derek - What are you doing with my clothes? Derek!"

Her voice is so different, so high with panic.

And in one sharp movement, he had stripped and yanked all of the hangers off the closet.

"Derek, don't!"

And just as quickly, in another sharp motion, he detoured from her pleading form, silk and chiffon and cotton and lace all draped over his forearm. She reached out for him, in an absence of traction and he feels her fingers desperately clawing on his shoulder. He roughly shrugged and slapped her hand away.

"Don't you dare touch me with those hands, Addison! Don't you make me hit you!"

He won't. He will.

He doesn't want to. He wants to.

He would. He wouldn't.

He should. He shouldn't.

He can. He can't.

He couldn't. He could.

He won't. He won't.

 _Never_.

She doesn't say anything further, only pressed her fingers to her lips to mask the gasp she voiced. She looks frightened, if her pupils were any indication.

Her melodrama only irritated him, but then, she was crying, which he hates. He rolled his eyes. And he hates her even more for that because even when she's clearly at fault here, she still manages to make him feel sorry for her.

Then, like the caustic pitter-patter of the roof above, time sped up again and he finds himself up and yanking the sheets altogether and fisting them with her clothes.

"Derek, please don't do this!"

He should've told her that yesterday. Begged her, even, to not end their marriage.

But he didn't know.

 _He didn't know she'd be a whore and fuck his best friend._

"It was one time. One time. Please listen. It just happened, Derek!"

With the evidence of her sin still heavy in his arms, he stopped and turned around to glare at her in this disbelief. And it's only then that he thinks she realised her mistake.

 _It just happened?_

Nothing just happens when it involves Mark. It's just theoretically implausible since he's a sociopath; his existing moral compass is greatly and even dangerously skewed. He knows how his now-former best friend operates.

"I know that's what people say. I know that's what gets said - I don't know how it happened - I don't know what I was thinking. He was _here_ -" And she immediately stopped her words right then and there, stopped digging herself a bigger grave. A bigger one because from the moment he walked into his house, she was dead to him.

He laughed a chuckle, not in any means of humour, "He was just here?" he just had to inhale as he repeated her statement, forcing much needed oxygen into his lungs. He can't breathe. "You screwed my best friend and all you can say is, ' _He was just here._ '?" he raised his voice, stomping to open the door so he could throw her fabrics into the pouring rain.

"I'm sorry, Derek. Please."

She was cowering on the step of their stairs when he turned back around to look at her.

He lowered his eyes to study her for a moment - the twisting white hands on the banister, the fearful and pleading bloodshot eyes looking up at him, the heaving collarbones and rhythmic chest cavity.

"Get out."

Confusion, or maybe it's a question, creased her forehead. She shook her head.

"No."

"Get. Out."

"No. No, I'm not going!" she shouted, trying to sound a lot more adamant and sure of herself than the strange voice that was breaking.

"Get out of _my_ house now!"

 _Our house..._

He can almost hear her defiant.

"Get out, Addison. Out."

He's fully prepared to drag her out himself. He doesn't want to have to resort to that. But he will - _oh, he will_ \- and she better believe that he will.

"We have to talk about this. I'm holding my ground." she pleaded, her hands holding the banister like her life depends on it.

He took a step towards her, and she backed against the wall, quivering and shaking her head, mumbling incoherents that doesn't reach him.

"Get. Out. Addison."

"Derek."

But he yanked at her arm and pulled her to her feet. Not too roughly, he must add - he really don't think he was, though she did stumble a little before she regained her balance and tried to stumble out of his grasp."I'm holding my ground, Derek." she cried and grabbed the banister again, "I'm holding my ground! We don't quit!"

 _Oh, but they do_.

Addison-and-Derek do quit. They've checked out on one another a long time ago, and they didn't even notice that they have. Or they did noticed and just didn't want it to register in their heads.

 _Ignorants. Fools. Idiots._

"Derek, I'm sorry." she said again, her voice trembling, and that only made him clench her wrist tighter.

He wanted to hurt her, hurt her like she had hurt him. But he knows for a fact that if she does get hurt, if he were to hit her, it can never amount to the hurt he's in, he will only feel much more atrocious than he already feels.

"Derek..." Her tone bordered on begging now.

He took a deep breath, looked down at her hands and saw her rings glisten as they catch the light, and then he turned his face to look at her one last nauseating time.

She threw their marriage away for Mark.

Gripping her wrists with much intense and unnecessary force, "Get out." he repeated again and again and again and again as he pried and pulled each of her finger off the banister.

"Ow! Ow! Derek! What are you doing? Derek?" she screamed, pulling herself backwards, trying to hold onto something as he dragged her down the step and into the open foyer.

It wasn't easy, Addison is strong when she's determined, but he's biologically with the advantage. _Remember?_ He's obviously stronger and the high with rage was only a bonus to his strength.

"Derek, no, no!"

She was inhaling in sharp gasps. He thinks she's forgotten how to breathe. He's forgotten too.

He couldn't care less about her anymore.

"Noooo!"

He flung open the door with one hand while she attempted to peel off his hand that has a death grip on her wrist.

"Derek, please don't do this -"

He could've told her that yesterday too. But he didn't know.

 _Remember?_

And then he pushed into the rain. She didn't move, just stared with wide set of eyes at him. Most probably in shock that he'd just literally thrown her out.

"Ple-"

He doesn't wait. He slammed the door in her face, doesn't allow her to finish the word.

 _This was all wrong._

Throwing her into the threshold wasn't a piece of cake, Addison had put up one hell of a fight, he can prove and attest to that with the scratches and pricks of red on his arms. And he can also hear her outside, crying and begging and he leaned against the door, his forehead pressing the cool surface, breathing hard.

"Please. Derek."

She's banging at the door. It's vibrating against him.

 _This was all wrong._

She was not quiet at all, she was mercilessly loud, fists banging at the door, and he was surprised that their nosy and pretentious Upper East Side neighbours hadn't yet called 911.

"Derek!"

 _This was all wrong._

He's now slumped against the door, his back in support with the wood, still catching his breath and wondering what to do next. He isn't sure. But he should let her back in. He thinks so.

It was still raining.

It was painful.

He felt nothing but pain.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

It was pain everywhere; she was that too. Pain was in his heart, in his soul, he felt it in his bones too, everywhere was hurting with the pain of her betrayal.

"Please. Please. Please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You have to give me a chance. You have to give me a chance to show you how sorry I am. I'm sorry, Derek."

 _This was all wrong._

He was not about to cry. But still hot tears scorched their way down his face, tracking burning paths down his skin while sobs racked his body.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

He felt like he's being washed away with a flood of bloody tears.

 _Why did she have to do it? Why?_

He doesn't understand. He won't. He doesn't want to anyway.

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, he was frozen, ice cold, blind and mute, swimming in a dark sea of terror and choking on his own fear coming true - it is his reality now.

He loves her. _Why does he still love her?_

Addison and Mark. _Mark of all people?_

It's a double betrayal. His best friend and wife.

 _Addison-and-Mark_ \- just hearing that in his head nauseated him.

It's disgusting.

The hyphens joining both of their names - _Addison-and-Derek_ \- was their thing. Theirs and only theirs.

Addison and Mark.

He hates them.

 _This was all wrong._

"Derek..." It's low. It's soft and weak.

She's a whisper.

He hears her nevertheless.

It had stopped raining a while ago.

There's a knock. Then, a much louder one that echoed in his home.

He ignored them both.

And when he closed his eyes, he sees her flushed face and apologising, begging, and he sees the one with her betrayal too. But only that seemed to be harder to ignore.

And then she knocked again.

" _Derek_." she said, her voice breaking on the last syllable.

 _This was all wrong._

He poured and drank and poured and drank and suddenly his eyes were burning with tears again but he pushed them away, furious.

He drank and didn't forget about anything tonight. He drank some more and everything dulled to stooped hunches; the lights, the heaviness of his head on his shoulders, the noise the glass makes every time he deposited it back on the coffee table. All of it dulled, except for the images in his head and Mark on top of Addison.

He's drunk.

He's drunk but he's not drunk enough because he can still rationalise his slurred words and swaying vision into a definition. He can still see them.

He checked his watch, it's almost a quarter to twelve. Addison hadn't knocked or say anything for some time now.

He stumbled a little as he walked towards the door.

Wet bricks, a gush of cold wind and a taxi horn almost killed him.

Her clothes and sin were the only things he brought back inside.

* * *

 _"...bachelor loner converted the garden shed into an impregnable twenty-first century dungeon. The despot's victims have an eerie pallor and appear to be in a borderline catatonic state after the long nightmare of their incarceration."_

 _"...the malnourished boy, unable to walk, is seen here lashing out convulsively at one of his rescuers."_

* * *

"You could've told me you had a dead wife, Derek. Do you ever think about that?"

"I do."

He does.

 _Only everyday._

He has got a dead wife, who apparently isn't as dead as she was yesterday or the last seven years, for that matter.

He has got a dead wife, who apparently was abducted the day he threw her out of their home and more.

He has got a dead wife, who apparently was in Poughkeepsie and was a captive for a seriously ill-in-the-head person the entire time.

He has got a wife, and he'll be taking the first flight to New York, a six hour anxiety filled ride, to see her after many many long and difficult-to-get-up-in-the-morning days and he's not entirely sure how and what he's suppose to feel.

 _Relief? Nervous? Shock? Anger? Sorrow?_

And he also has got a very understandably frustrated and threatened girlfriend, who's questioning their entire relationship now since it was apparently built on a base of a lie.

"Do you know how less complicated all this would be if you'd have just told me the truth from the beginning?"

He knows. _Oh, he does._ But how the hell was he suppose to know she'd resurfaced.

She was dead to him and everyone.

Seven years. It's been seven years since she vanished on that rainy night, since the trail of the investigation into her disappearance went bitterly cold, since his entire world caved in on itself.

 _How could she still be alive?_

He's only recently begun to accept the more likely scenarios that everyone has been drilling into his brain.

He's finally begun to mourn her, to grieve, and now, there's a chance it was all in vain. That he's betrayed her by conceding to the idea of her death, by moving on to the best of his ability, to date, then, love again, with the evidence herring in nine short months.

 _Shit!_

 _...she's alive..._

 _...and she's been held against her will..._

 _...in a garden shed for the last seven years..._

Those were the exact words the detective used when she informed him of the development in his wife's case almost an hour ago.

 _Alive._

She was hidden and obscured from the world to shine bright like the diamonds in the sky and to even be given a chance to flourish as the great surgeon she was. Locked away for him and the universe to never ever seek out. It's unfair - life is so cruel sometimes because he knows how hard she's worked for her career. He was there to witness it all.

 _Held against her will._

Partly like their marriage, only she was a very compliant participant in that one, as he was too. _God!_ He can't even begin to comprehend and imagine what horrors she had to go through in that garden shed. The police wouldn't say much over the phone, and he really don't know if he wants to know, just that she's being treated and assessed at the best hospital in that same horrific city.

He has questions - many many unsolicited queries and the most pressing one, the one derived from the media, is whether she's been caged up like an animal all these years. The news have been coming up with speculations and stories that only seemed to be getting even more asinine than the last all night long and, of course, he's been foolish enough to be listening to all, not answering any of the calls he's been getting, and now his brain can't distinguish which one is which.

 _Just in that room and in shackles...for seven years..._ _For the past seven years, she was existing in a loop, in torture - a routine, imprisoned behind the same four bland walls?_

And his Addison...

 _Is she even his Addison anymore?_

The same Addison whose hands would fit in his like they were made just for him. The beauty who graduated on top of their class in med school. The same one who also started a brawl at a bar that almost got them arrested, which in turn almost got them expelled. Addison, who could hardly say yes over all the tears when he proposed on the rooftop of the Empire State. The wife who loved to riddle him with questions she already knew the answers to. And that would always _always_ irritate and annoy the hell out of him because, really, what's the point of her asking them in the first place when her set of answers are the only right ones.

But then, the last riddle before she...disappeared had stuck with him. More so because he never got the right answer.

 _Why does the sunflower always face the sun?_

Why does the sunflower always face the sun?

But solitary confinement can change a person's psyche completely.

For as long as he've known Addison, she's always been miserable when alone. She unequivocally despises desolation, as a result of her lonesome childhood. Maybe that was why she and Mark got along so well so quickly. He understood where she was coming from. And she did too.

But there was a small child too, the one he saw with her on TV, ergo she wasn't completely by herself.

 _Who is the kid anyway?_

The police wouldn't tell him over the phone.

"You don't trust me, is that why you -" Meredith glares, lowering her voice when a creak from the loose floorboards on the stairs echoed, followed by thudding footsteps, indicating that her roommates have been listening in on them, "You could've told me about your wife? Do you ever think about that?"

Only he thinks about _that_ all the time, if only Meredith knew the constant and rampant self-doubt running through his mind on the daily.

 _Should he tell her? Is today the day that he does? What to say? How will he tell her? What if she thinks he killed her? It's almost always the spouse. But he didn't kill her. She won't believe him. She'll leave him._

It's all stupid anxiety after stupid anxiety that was stopping him, but months went by too quickly and he found himself content and happy again, then a year happened and then another and by then, telling her about Addison would only jeopardise their relationship.

 _Or so he believed it will._

Because like she had said why couldn't he have told her the truth from the get-go.

 _What was he hiding?_

To be honest, he was actually scared to talk about her. Scared that Meredith will see a certain something where he doesn't want there to be one anymore. Because it wasn't easy to pretend. Because it wasn't easy to mourn - his marriage, his friendship and then, his Addison.

He felt nothing but this...this gut-wrenching heart ache whenever he thought about his wife. His heart would stop beating automatically, stop serving its sole purpose because the pain was really that much. It was like seeing his wife in bed with his best friend over and over again. Everywhere he went left a linger of her betrayal.

The pain, it came unexpectedly and went away slowly but with sure intensity.

Because when he started pretending, he, then, couldn't remember exactly how to stop.

For two years, he woke up anew, to Meredith, to Seattle but still with that same lingering numb feeling. It aches like nothing in this world. He hated it. He needed to reach in and claw it out. _But how?_

He hates it because he knows what that ache means.

But for two years, he knew and he would pretend like he didn't.

It was easier to get _past_ her that way.

He would pretend like he really liked his new job as head of neurosurgery at Seattle Grace. He would pretend he liked this new city too, and the trailer he occasionally sleeps in and the mad acres of land that he owned and has no fucking clue what to do with it. He would pretend like he enjoyed his new little relationship with Meredith. He would pretend for two years that every time he looked up at the gallery during a surgery that he wasn't actually looking for her, he wouldn't panic and would only pretend he wasn't disappointed when he never caught sight of her red hair. He would pretended that he liked the fact that his sheets doesn't smell like her. Or that he wouldn't be able to hear her at all, the way she would say his name especially in the mornings when there was, once upon a time, a time when she was content and happy that he was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes.

 _Oh, he really didn't miss any of that or her._

But then after the two years of feeling numb, and feeling excluded in a world where everyone wants to belong - she's alive and she's going to wreck havoc in the life he's been trying so hard to pretend. He will see her and his heart will stop again. He will see her and Mark and he'll be broken all over again. Because there was no closure, no justice, no discussion, no redemption since she never came back. They never got to do or say what needed to be said seven years ago.

"I do. I know I should have. And I'm sorry that I didn't." he says quietly, reaching out to hold her.

She pushes his hand, "Get away from me!" and grits between clenched teeth.

He would always try to avoid conversations with Meredith of his life before Seattle for the most part, knowing what it will always circle back to.

But her insecurities about not really knowing him entirely bloomed like wildflowers, twining between them like thorns. He doesn't blame her though, doesn't try to cut them down either.

He can't do that.

Meredith's face is hot over wet. She wants to wipe away her tears - _but why the fuck is she crying?_ \- before he sees them, but she doesn't have the energy to lift hr hand. She doesn't even have the energy to move to the couch. So, she just sinks down at where she is, landing on the coffee table ( _it's better than the floor, she guess._ ) and she sees Derek, _McLiar_ , look up to her silence.

"Did you think about her when we..." she takes a deep breath, looks at him with uncertainty and a hint of disgust shadows her face then, when the silence is all the answer they both need to hear.

 _Shamefully and sickly, only every time._

He thinks about it a lot. Has thought about it a lot over the past seven years. He never stopped. Even on nights with Meredith...he never stopped.

He couldn't.

And he can't stop now.

"Mer..." he reaches for her again, she shrugs and puts her hands up, telling him to simply stop making things worse - _yes, that's possible because it involves Derek_.

"Do you still love her, Derek?" she drudges.

He has never heard her say anything so heavily before. It sounded like each syllable was tied down with stones.

He don't think he can ever give her a direct answer. _Yes or no._ He doesn't know what the answer is, if there is one at all.

Meredith is sweet and kind, the light amidst his years of darkness, the woman who became his breath of fresh air when he was drowning, his saviour.

Meredith is _good_.

But Addison is...

 _Better?_

No, no, it's not necessarily about being better. She's just - different.

He fell in love with Meredith's quiet affection, her soft spoken voice, her gentle heart. But Addison...she struck him like lightning the moment he met her, drew him in with her tenacity, her passion, her fire. Watching her dance is nothing short of a religious experience. Witnessing it once just wasn't enough. Because Addison is like fire on a cold night, like electricity during a power outage, like a beautiful fervour needing oxygen to survive. And she already has him walking straight into her flames again.

He knows the saying, how rare but possible nevertheless, for lightning to strike twice. His first love just hit him with that second bolt.

Finding her and finally getting that call from the police and hearing the word _alive_ , felt like breathing in a crisp breath of fresh air for the first time in seven years. Meredith has been his beautiful respirator. But maybe it's time to breathe on his own again.

Derek scrapes a hand through his hair, squeezes his eyes shut. "I'll always care about her." is the attempt at an explanation, an answer.

It's not enough.

"Are you still in love with her?"

Derek stays silent.

 _A part of him has, have and will always love her._

Meredith walks out, stopping just by the archway. "Go." she says and turns towards him, almost too calmly. "Go be with your wife. She needs you much more than I do."

* * *

 _"I want to go to bed."_

 _"Just a little while more. We're almost at the hospital."_

 _"No, in room. I've seen the world and now, I'm tired."_

 _"We're never going back there, Christopher."_

* * *

This isn't Room, I think first when I wake.

Ma is still asleep so I don't wake her. I look past her head. The floor is like rug in room but fuzzy with no pattern and no edges, sort of gray, it goes all the way to the walls, I didn't know walls are green. There's a picture of a monster, but when I look it's actually a huge wave of the sea. A shape like Skylight only in the wall, I know what it is, it's a sideways window, with hundreds of wooden stripes across it but there's light coming between.

"We're in outside." I remember.

The light from sideways window is shining yellow on Ma's face and I try to look the bright but it hurts my eyes.

And then suddenly Ma jumps like an electric shock and I shout a little because she has scared me.

"Sorry." Ma says like she has no breath, "Sorry. Bad dream." I didn't know Ma can have bad dreams too.

"Was it scary?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter." She finds my cheek to kiss it. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it, Christopher?"

I don't know. Ma is not suppose to not know all the answers. She's not suppose to ask me, I want to tell her that. But she's climbing out - quick, quick, and going to sideways window. Still she is in her paper dress from yesterday night when the doctors were having a look at her in a special room, it's all crunched up now.

 _Is room still there if we're not in it?_

I run to Ma to ask but table hits my leg.

 _Bam!_

"Oh, sweetie, be careful."

She rubs it better.

"Are we on another planet?"

"No." she smiles wide and we stare out sideways window, "We're on the same one, just a different spot."

I'm looking out, it's like TV but bigger and the colours are much dazzlier. Outside has many rooms that opens to even more many rooms.

There's grass and trees and tall lamps and people walking, a bit of a white building with many sideways window and three cars - a red and a black and a silver with stripey bits.

"Okay. Let's get cleaned up."

"We haven't had breakfast yet." I tell her.

"We can do that later."

But I don't want to.

"But my other t-shirts are -" They're in dresser, in the lower drawer in room. They were yesterday there so I guess they are now too.

I shake my head. "Breakfast comes before bath."

"It doesn't have to, Christopher."

"But -"

"We don't have to do the same things we did before." says Ma, "We can do whatever we like now."

"I like breakfast before bath."

But she's gone around a corner and I can't see her, I run after. I find her in another little room inside this one, the floor's turned into shiny cold white squares and the walls are gone white too. There's a toilet that's not like the toilet in room and a sink that's twice the big of sink in room and a tall invisible box that must be a shower like TV persons splash in. "Where's the bathtub hiding?"

"There's no bathtub." Ma pushes the front of the box sideways so it opens. She takes off her paper dress and crumples it up in a basket that I think is a trash, but it hasn't got a lid that goes ding. "Let's get rid of that filthy thing too."

My t-shirt pulls my face when coming off. She scrunches it up and throws it in the trash too.

she was thanking me for being a fan.

"But -"

I don't want it threw away.

"It's a rag."

"It's not. It's my t-shirt."

"You'll get another one. Lots of them. Real clothes, okay." I can hardly hear her because she's switched on the shower, all noisy.

"For Sunday treat?"

Ma is shouting from inside shower but not angry, "There will be so many treat, not just on Sundays. I'll get you whatever you want, okay? Now come on in."

"I don't know how."

"It's splashier. Come on."

Ma waits. But I don't move.

"Okay, then. I won't be long." She steps in and starts closing the invisible door.

"Don't."

"I've got to, or the water will spill out."

"No."

"I won't be going anywhere. I'll be right here. You can see me through the door."

She slides it shut.

I can't see her anymore except blurry, not like real Ma but some ghost that makes weird sounds.

I hit it, I can't figure out the way to open. Then, I do it again and it opens.

"Christopher!"

"I don't like when you're in and I'm out."

"Then, get in."

I'm crying.

Ma wipes my face with her hand, that spreads the tears. "Sorry." she says, "Sorry. I guess I'm moving too fast." She gives me a hug that wets me all over. "There's nothing to cry about anymore."

When I was a baby I only cried for a good reason. But Ma going in the shower and shutting me on the wrong side, that's a good reason too.

This time I come in, I stand flat against the glass but I still get splashed.

Ma puts her face into the noisy waterfall, she makes a long groan.

"Are you hurting?" I shout.

"No, I'm just trying to enjoy my first shower in seven years."

* * *

 _"What'd you fancy for breakfast, huh, Chris?"_

 _"No."_

 _"You say, 'No, thanks.'. That's good manners, sweetie - Goodness, I've become my mother!"_

 _"Ma, they're all looking."_

 _"Everybody is just being friendly."_

 _"I wish they'd stop."_

 _"This must be kind of overwhelming for Christopher, for both of you. Maybe a little ambitious for day one?"_

 _"We wanted to see the garden."_

 _"No, that was Alice, who wanted to."_

* * *

It's strange and oh-so almost frightening how unaccustomed she has become to the outside.

To what's the norm, actually.

To wake up free as a bird and live, not just exist.

To the day-to-day life she was so tortuously left out of for so long. But it's the same world, same people, same streets and cars, sky and trees she left behind for seven long years.

Everything is the way as she had left it. Nothing is missing. Nothing stands out. Nothing is out of the ordinary, different, but her.

She's staring and staring out the window - it's quite the laugh the glass hadn't yet shatter with the ugly that's trying to just catch a glimpse of familiarity - and she sees what and everything she's been longing to, but - oh, she's afraid to say it, to even think it, because with her kind of experience and luck, her wish might just come true.

She's afraid that she'll be a secret _again_.

But then, that's everything she needs to do right now. _Hide_. Hide and be locked away, because she feels exposed and still so not in control of her life.

There is some. Not enough, though.

She's exposed to the bare minimum, to nothing but gray coating and she still feels as though she's being locked and away in that room.

She's exposed and everyone knows about her and Christopher and the news aren't being sensitive about it all.

She's exposed and everyone knows about the doctor who cheated on her husband with his very own best friend, who should've expected the unexpected because karma is a bitch.

 _Karma is everything._

She's looking and looking and she sees tall buildings and green trees and blue skys and fluffy and happy clouds and news vans, ambulances and police cars, but she can't seem to see the right things.

She's finding and finding something out there but she isn't sure what is it she's looking for.

She's blinded by what she sees.

It's a concoction, a collection of testaments. All just happening simultaneously, occurring, existing all at once, in a confusing game called life.

It's a harlequin of scattered memories.

 ** _Missing Doctor Incarcerated for Adultery._**

 _ **The Price of Infidelity. Did she get what she deserved?**_

It's a crumb, an atom of a scent; no, even less than that - it's more like the premonition of a scent than the scent itself.

She doesn't belong here anymore.

She's an alien like King Kong. So gigantic and vulnerable but yet so broken and in pain. So out of place in the world that doesn't welcome her.

She don't really know for sure but she does feel like the world doesn't.

She probably shouldn't have switched on the TV because the things you don't know doesn't ever kill you.

 _Right?_

Adulterous bitch. She's an adulterous bitch. It's true what they say, your past will always _always_ hold a noose around your neck.

But she's changed and all she wants is to go back home.

"Ma?" Christopher calls out, walking towards her at the window.

She's still staring, looking, finding and she only mumbles a ' _yes_ ' back.

"That's confusing." he points to the smaller bed the nurses had laid out for him earlier when they were at the cafeteria having breakfast.

It was a bad idea - having breakfast with normal people - but she didn't thought it was so bad when she had thought it through.

Maybe she didn't use her head enough.

 _Stupid! Stupid, Addison!_

She doesn't need to prove _him_ right anymore than she already has. But she can't really take back that fact because _he's_ right, she is stupid.

Because all she wanted and needed was to go back to normalcy the fastest and quickest way possible.

All she has to do is put on a false self in front of everyone and push a few buttons and that's that, just like before. The one thing, other than being a good doctor, she was great at.

She needed Christopher to get familiarised with everything else as soon as possible so they could go home and she can be in control of her life again.

She just really _really_ want to go home.

Nothing is the same, she can't even act, put up strong and confident front anymore.

She can't do anything right anymore.

It was a stupid idea of blending in with everyone else - _everyone knows_ \- and she can see that her doctor was thinking the same thing.

 _Stupid, Addison! Use your head!_

"Who sleeps there?" his brows furrows and she rubs at the spot between them.

"Hmm?"

She turns to look at her son, eager to know why there are two beds. "Oh, it's for you." she says softly, trying to smile so he wouldn't see that she's upset.

"But I sleep with you."

She reaches for his hair, combing back with her fingers, allowing the calming narrative to stop the boiling anxiety and regret from reaching her eyes. "Well, the nurses didn't know that, sweetie. You don't have to sleep there if you don't want to."

He nods and lets his mother braid his hair. It's always getting into his eyes and making him itchy all over.

It's funny since the boys in outside only has very very short hair or no hair at all.

His mother isn't in a good mood ever since caming back from breakfast. He can tell. She's been so unusually quiet but still he hears whispering and sees her staring and only staring at nothing. He watched and listened but doesn't understand. He watched and listened and was scared because it was just like in room when she wouldn't get out of for a day or two and sometimes when three.

She's looking out of the window. Maybe she's finding someone.

 _Him!_ Of course, his mother is looking out of the window for _him_ , making sure _he_ wouldn't hurt him and lock them in room again.

 _What if he finds them at the hospital?_

 _How could he have forgotten about all him?_

"What if _he_ comes?" she hears Christopher whisper.

"Who?"

" _He_. What if _he_ comes in _his_ truck?" she turns him around and places both of her hands on his sad cheeks and rubs the spot on his foreheads again - one, two - looking into his eyes so he'll believe her.

"Oh, _he_ couldn't. The police outside our door will protect us all day long and besides _he_ doesn't know where we are. "

"Are we a secret again?"

She purses her lips. _Everyone knows her secret._ Because the past is a tricky thing. Sometimes it's etched in stone and other times, it's rendered in soft memories. But to carry a secret is to play with fire, eventually everyone involved will get burned.

"Yeah. But the good kind."

* * *

 _"About your wrist...it will probably need to be broken again at some point."_

 _"No!"_

 _"Shh, it's okay. I'll be asleep when it happens. I won't feel a thing. The surgeon will put a metal pin in to help the joint work better."_

* * *

The door is ticking, I tell Ma, and the door opens. It's another nurse, the same uniform but not the nurse I see before. She says we should put our masks back on because we have a visitor. I never had a visitor before, I don't know what it means.

Ma turns and smiles at me with her teeth all big, she looks so funny being happy - not like Ma in room.

A person comes in and runs at Ma, I jump up with fists but Ma's laughing and crying at the same time and the person spins her around and says she weighs like paper.

People in outside say weird things all the time.

They're both crying and laughing; it must be happy-sad.

"Oh, Archer." That's Ma saying. "Oh, Archer."

"Addie -" the he holds Ma's face like she does to me when I'm crying and wipes her tears.

"I'm back, Archer."

"Yea, you are." says the he person and pull her to a big hug again.

"When they called I was sure it was another hoax -"

"Did you miss me?" Ma starts to laugh, a weird way.

The he is crying too, there's drips under his eyes, and he keeps nodding and nodding and nodding.

He's still got Ma all tied up in his arms, he's three times as big as her and taller too. I never saw persons so tall before.

Ma is not moving or saying anymore, he's squishing her so tight, I don't think he's letting her breathe.

"Ma." I try to say but I only hear myself inside.

I can't see Ma breathing anymore. He's not letting her breathe. I panic. "Ma." I say louder. But I don't think she hear me.

Then, I hear he say something I don't know.

"Let me see my little sis without this silly thing for a second."

Ma pulls her mask down, smiling and smiling so bright and she looks up at him. But then, he stops grinning at Ma and saying for one second. After that, he only smiles sadly.

"You look great."

"You don't have to lie." Ma says, not all happy anymore like before and puts mask back up. "There's a really huge mirror in the bathroom."

Oh, oh, there is. And you can see your person, I don't know how it's possible. I saw my person today morning and I press my face to Ma's.

I never saw my chin and my face and my eyes and my nose, it's all like Ma's but only smaller.

"Ma." I whisper.

The he is staring at me now. "I can't believe it, I can't believe any of this."

"Christopher," says Ma to me, waving for me to go to her, "This is your uncle."

So, I really have one.

"Oh, the Captain's gonna freak out." The uncle opens his arms like he's going to wave them but he doesn't. He walks over at me. I get behind the chair. "I got to be here when that happens."

"Shut up, Archer."

I look at Ma because we're not allowed to say that. Only TV people say it. Ma says to never imitate the bad words in TV because that makes me bad too. I want to tell her she needs punishment but my words wouldn't come out.

"Hey, I'm your uncle Archer."

"He's really lovely, Archie. Very sweet and..." says Ma, "He's just not used to anyone but me."

"Of course, of course." The uncle comes a bit closer. "Christopher, you've been the bravest little boy in the world, you've brought my baby sis back."

 _What baby?_

"Lift up your mask for a second." Ma tells me.

I do then snap it back.

"He's got our nose." the uncle says and laughs. "The Montgomery curse."

The uncle goes low like my height and is staring and staring at me. I want to tell Ma to tell him to stop but she's all quiet now and looking at wall like she's thinking.

"Doesn't Bizzy or the Captain want to see me, Archer?"

* * *

 _"Where are your shoes?"_

 _"They make my feet sore."_

 _"I know you're not used to them, but you just can't go around bare all the time. You might step on something sharp."_

 _"I won't. I promise."_

* * *

Everything is backwards today.

Everything is upside down.

Everything is not the same.

Everything is not normal.

She keeps saying that as if she knows what normal is. Her definition has long been so distorted that it looks like one of Picasso's paintings.

Well, she looks like one too - beautifully distorted.

She needs Archer back. She needs her life back. She needs her brother to hold her hand and tell her everything will be okay, like he used to when they were children.

He'll be back for the next visitation tonight, he said, but she knows he won't. She knows not to anticipate. She knows not to get her hopes up. She knows not to wait.

If any, his visit had only made her much more confused with the things he've enlightened her on.

 _Derek. Bizzy. Seattle. The Captain. Bizzy._

Confused, suffocating - not from lack of oxygen but from lack of hope, a lack of feeling alive and ability to cope. She's drowning in pain, chest exploding and heart aching, waiting for her demise because she's so tired and inside, she's breaking.

 _Still._

There's a splitting migraine growing at the back of her eyes and it doesn't make this marvellous day any better than she thought it would be nor did the results from her blood tests.

A day that was suppose to be her happiest is very closely one of her worsts.

 _Can't she just be happy for once?_

She didn't mean any of what she had said when she was younger, every child wishes _that_ upon their parents - it held no meaning whatsoever.

It didn't matter then. It shouldn't now.

"All those time I said that I - I wanted - I didn't really mean..."

The worry bloomed and flooded his chest. He couldn't keep it at bay anymore. He hurried to where she was sitting and crouched down in front of her. "Addie?" he murmured softly, resting his hands on her knees.

Her shoulders hitched at the sound of his voice. A deep shudder ran through her body and then she was crying again.

When she lifted her head and met his gaze, he felt his own eyes burn with tears. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes haunted. But the way she was looking at him - he won't be able to sleep tonight.

He needs a drink and five more.

"Tell me everything will be okay."

His chest ached. "Everything will be okay." he hates lying to his sister but he can tell it's something she really wanted to be affirmed.

She combed her fingers through his hair again and then smoothed her hand across his forehead, thumb brushing over that little scar above his eyebrow that she gave him by tripping him over the curb.

He shouldn't have pulled on her pigtails.

Montgomeries are not only great liars but also phenomenal lie detectors.

"The Captain's on his way from London. He can't wait to see you." he reminded her and sighed.

There's a lot going on, a thousand and one problems all hovering around her and all at once, she doesn't understand which to deal with first. But now she's numb and falling down a never ending abyss, a downward spiral.

 _Derek. Bizzy. Seattle. The Captain. Bizzy._

She feels and she doesn't want to, so she chose the latter.

It is like a switch and she could just turn it off; the emotions, the one thing that's alway holding her back, that's keeping her from getting past things. She has too much of them. Too sensitive when she doesn't want to be.

She realises she could still will herself not to care, but that only works in short bursts.

Short but easy.

Easier to avoid the watchful eyes and sharp whispers all together. Avoid the confused, slightly accusatory looks from everyone at the hospital, the pure worry and concern from Christopher. She was so used to seeing the way he looked at her as love, that it was hard to train her brain to see otherwise.

"Are you crying?" Christopher asks quietly, clutching her tightly like if he lets go, she might puff into thin air.

She was. "No." she murmurs in his ear. But he doesn't believe her - her son knows it when she lies. Maybe it was her voice that gave it away.

"Are you hurting?"

"No." she says quickly, pushing herself to a sitting position. He's too much too young to worry about her. She doesn't ever want him to worry about anything. "Let's go out for a walk. Fresh air, yeah?"

He takes her hand. "Can we not go to downstairs outside? Just here outside is okay."

"Sure."

Christopher watches as his mother holds the door handle, she scrunches her face as she pulls, it must be because of her bad wrist. So, she tries to opens the door with her other hand instead.

He had asked his mother why she was upset when Uncle Archer was here, why she was almost shouting at him, she said she misses him. That's all. But he doesn't think that is all there is to it.

She throws a smile at him and squeezes his hand, "Do you know what this whole thing we're walking on called?" she asks, waving her hands in the air.

"No."

"It's called a corridor or a hallway."

His mother said that it's a long passageway from which doors lead into rooms. And in the hospital, it has yellow walls and windows and doors are all along the opposite side. But every wall is a different colour, which is a bit confusing but that must be the rule here in outside.

"Ma, our door says eight and it's gold." he tells her.

"Gold is a nice colour, isn't it?"

He nods and starts to reach for the handle on a door, but just as he was about to twist it open, she yanks him backwards. "What are you doing? We can't just go opening other doors, Christopher, only ours."

"Why not?"

"Because they belong to other people." she tugs at his arm and they continue their walk.

"What other people?"

"We haven't met them yet."

 _Then how does she know?_

"But so can we look out the sideways windows?"

"Oh, yeah, they're for everyone."

"Is everyone us?"

"Us and everyone else." she tells him and they stop by a window.

Everyone else isn't here, so it's just them.

* * *

 _"You better not tell her about your twelve year old."_

 _"She's not twelve."_

 _"Yea, well, I don't give two shits about your relationship with the intern right now. She's my sister and if it were up to me, I wouldn't dare let you see her. But according to the doctors, she's been asking for you non-stop. I still don't see what she sees in you, but, let me be clear here, Shepherd, she's not the same, she's not the Addison you knew before you threw her out of her own house, so if you hurt her, even make her frown, I will kill you. They're my family."_

 _They?_

 _"You want me to hold your hand or what? Get up there now."_

* * *

It isn't pretty.

Blues, reds, and purples bloom and blend across her skin ( _he never thought she could get even whiter_. _No, she's not white, she's almost blue._ ), colouring her skin, forming in blotches - some fading, some not so much - across her neck, her jawline, and scatters a few on her arms too.

It's much too painful to look at her.

It's like a tidal wave of emotions.

But he needs to stare. He needs to feel more _crappier_ than he already does. And all he sees is the smile that has haunted his dreams, the blue eyes that have greeted him nearly every time he's closed his, the arms that wrapped around him, and the hands that have held, warmed, and branded his skin like invisible ink.

He needs the pain to wash through him ferociously, seeping into his blood, claiming him in desperate surges.

 _Oh, darling, oh, darling..._

He holds his gaze onto her, fingers digging into palms, his grip almost bleeding. And all he sees is her sitting up on the hospital bed with a surgical mask across her face like no time has passed and they're still in Gross Anatomy catching sneaky glances at each other from across the room.

 _Oh, darling, oh, Addison..._

He needs her closer, can't get her close enough, it's never close enough with her.

His wife looks almost unrecognisable - just almost - because even in the three sizes too large hospital apparel around her broken frame, she looks almost beautifully put together.

She looks so small and so weak, so helpless. That monster has taken half and more of his Addison with _him_ and he would really like to have all of her back.

 _Please_. _Please_.

And the boy next to her, who's just staring at him too, is causing him a greater deal of guilt because those bright, piercing blue eyes are undoubtedly a copy of Addison's.

The entire journey here, he kept wondering and asking himself whose and who's the child, and of course - of course on some level, if not, on every level, he probably knew the answer all along. He knew it when he saw it on the news. But was relentless to believe it because then, that can only mean she's...

 _She's...she's been ..._

He can't say it. He can't think it. He can't even want to imagine anyone putting their hands on his wife, hurting her, causing her pain and forcefully holding her down, so much so that it left her with a child.

But it's all he can really think about.

 _What is his name?_

He watches her, unable to close his eyes; he clings to her. Visually, can't let her go, ever, ever.

He's afraid to touch her. But soon, her flawed flesh calls to his fingertips. He sucks in a breath for courage, grazes a gentle digit to the curve of her brow, skirting the butterfly bandages stretched across a thin strip of dried crimson and follows the swollen line of her cheek.

 _Why does the sunflower always face the sun?_

And her skin is now hot under the whisper of his touch, throbbing and angry, and his chest tightens, like a vise around his heart, the metal jaws of life squeezing in closer, crushing the worn organ.

He may, once upon a time, be angry with her, brokenhearted and wounded over her and everything else, but like hell is he going to stay mad at the woman he _married_ when she's...when she's already been through so so much.

He swallows, takes every inch in as his eyes skims quickly past the marred skin, the noticeable bones of her cheeks, the beseeching expression, the boy who's just watching them from afar, and he sees her lips part in an attempt to say something or maybe just an exhale, but she never does. Never could, perhaps, since she's clenching her jaws, trying hard not to cry.

She may look damaged in all the colours of the rainbow, but - she is still his Addison.

He wants to hold her hand, cradle her fingers, twine them in the safety of his. They look too delicate to touch. But he does otherwise, only touches his hand to one of the unmarred spots available, cupping her ear in his palm and tracing the shell with his thumb.

Every sorrow is a letter for a coming happines, and every loss is an indication to the coming profit.

It's soft and innocent and so familiar that her skin tingles and erupts in goosebumps all over and she aches with a yearning she's believed had long been lost.

And it has, for too long, it has but he's so gentle right now, she thinks she might just be dreaming.

His chest shudders, begins to cave in on itself, on the litany of sobs threatening to breach his throat and tear past his lips, and he can't - he can't hold it all in anymore.

He didn't have that kind of training.

So, he closes the space between them with a single small step forward, mindful of her frailty, but still throwing his arms around her, feeling her lock around his body without a moment of hesitation, sealing his chest to her, his heart. His face buried in the crook of her neck.

She lets him hold her, feel her close, breathe her in, his nose in her hair, his breath short hot bursts against her neck.

"Addison." Her name on his lips both a plea and revelation and then it's as if the ground disappears from under her feet as he holds her against him, cradles her to his chest, his arms strong against her back, holding her tightly, protectively, possessively. "Oh my god, Addison. Honey, what - What happened - I - I'm sorry."

"Shhh." She paints comforting sounds onto his skin, words, reassurances to soothe his loving, bruised heart. "I'm here now. It's okay."

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

She falls against him, willing, pliable, her spine a convex curve against his arm, so tightly wound around her slight waist.

"It's okay." she mumbles into his shirt, holding him so tight that it must hurt him too, but she doesn't want to let him go and neither does he. So, he curls his hands tight onto the knobs of her shoulders.

She knows it's bad when he gets really quiet. When the weight of his sorrows, his worry, anger, disappointment just gets too much and he sinks within himself, drained of everything that makes him, him.

She has broken him. _Again_.

Pulling him away, just far enough to look him in the eyes. His eyes like midnight blue diamonds, scintillating with urgency, overwhelming desire, unfathomable ache.

"Bizzy." she breathes, gathers her voice. "Really?"

She didn't want to believe Archer before when he told her, but Derek won't lie to her.

He doesn't ever lie.

He's greeted with pain in her eyes when she pushes back, anticipation, confusion and fear, and she wrings one of her hands to his burned cheek.

He holds her gaze.

" _Really_." he exhales hard, a nod, staccato bursts of breath that pound against his ribcage and she trembles with it.

It was a brain aneurysm, that was what was told to the guests - friends and the extended family. But he was more than just surprised when Archer told him of the truth.

 _Suicide._

He was the one who found her. Archer.

It's only reasonable that's he's a mess, a drunk - he doesn't blame him. He...pities him.

 _Yes, he does._

But he don't think Archer told her any of the truth yet.

He watches her swallow, her throat necklaced in fading bruises that resembles fingerprints and bobbing with the effort, but her glistening eyes hold his the entire time, desperate and yearning, begging him not to turn away.

He is the sunlight to her rainy day and she opens herself to him again.

She believes him.

Derek won't lie to her.

She's the one who does.

" _Mommy_."

She wants to cry.

Not because she really wants to. But because if she does cry, she feels like she'll be doing the whole ' _sadness_ ' thing right.

 _This?_

This.

 _What is this?_

She does feel sorrow, in fact she's fairly certain she's depressed, but still, no tears arises.

There is no catharsis.

No resolution.

Just stand-still.

Stand still. Wait. And feel all the emotions.

* * *

 _"How old are you, Christopher?"_

 _"Baby, Uncle Derek is asking you a question."_

 _"Yes, I know. So, why don't you tell him yourself."_

 _"What did he say?"_

 _"He said he's five - okay, okay, I'll tell him. And that he's not a baby anymore."_

 _"Well, you're right, Christopher, in fact you are a remarkably courageous young man."_

* * *

"Christopher is...he's like a newborn in many ways, despite his remarkably accelerated literacy and numeracy. Now about his immune issues, there are likely to be challenges in the areas of, let's see, social adjustment, obviously, sensory modulation - filtering and sorting all the stimuli barraging him - plus difficulties with spatial perception." the doctor tells them.

Addison shrugs, her shoulders driven by sadness more than anything else. "Is that why he keeps banging into things?"

"He's been so familiar with his confined environment that he hasn't needed to learn to gauge distance."

That stings, the awareness that she is the proprietor for his delayed development.

 _How else has she ruined her son's life?_

 _She's a bad mother. And she knows Derek thinks so too._

"I thought he was okay," she observes Christopher, who's drawing a picture as asked by one of the other doctors, her voice cracking, "You know, more or less."

She just never thought they'd ever be getting out.

At one, it was barely a thought because all she could think about was keeping her newborn away from _him_. At two, maybe she did try to find a way out, she can't exactly remember. Three, she stopped thinking completely. And four, she obsessed over it - night, day, dawn and dusk, she hardly slept. Only at five did she actually trusted Christopher and herself.

She should've gotten them out earlier. At least him.

Derek is moving closer again, both hands slipping onto her shoulders and she doesn't push him away this time - _thank God_ \- and his thumb brushes the protruding disks between her shoulder blades.

"I can't," she chokes, screwing her eyes shut. She sees those eyes, green - cat-like and haunting. _His_ eyes. They stare back at her and she squeezes hers tighter, tries to change the picture, tries to coerce herself to calm because a panic attack will only set her back tenfolds.

But the walls are closing in, she's in the teeny, tiny room again, and her breathing quickens.

"Addie."

It's Derek and he squeezes her shoulders. The softness of his voice is one that threatens to undo her.

She opens her eyes and chances a glance at him and the doctor. They know. _Everyone_ _knows_. She gave herself away. His face is twisted and she knows the gears are turning.

Derek addresses the doctor, "Would you mind coming back-"

"No." she glares at Derek, "Let's just get this over with, Doctor. I'm fine."

She is fine. But her body language and tone doesn't coincide with her claims.

She knows she shouldn't be angry at Derek. She knows but she can't help it.

"Addison."

She exhales. "You don't get to control my life, Derek. Nobody does."

If she says it loud, then it must be true.

 _Right?_

Blowing out a breath, his eyes remain downcast, his bottom lip worried between his teeth, but he says nothing.

He knows she's right - for seven years, she's been robbed of that. He doesn't want to make her the same way ever again.

"...ideally a mental health OT with qualifications in play and art therapy would come in but at our meeting this morning, it was agreed that the immediate priority is to help him feel safe. Both of you rather. It's a matter of slowly, slowly enlarging the circle of trust. As I was _lucky_ enough to -"

"Lucky?" he interrupts. He's not amused by the doctor's choice of word. There's nothing lucky about any of this.

"Derek." Addison hisses, and she tries to calm him down with a grounding hand on his wrist.

"Sorry. Poor choice of word." the doctor apologises again and holds his hands up in mock surrender when he takes a threatening step forward.

"You think my wife is some sort of exhibition that you can study."

"Stop it, Derek. He's just doing his job." her voice is sharp and pleading. Maybe another panic is even raising at the berating show of testosterone.

She can't deal with anything anymore. There are too many papers to signs, too many doctors to talk to, people to see and decisions to make.

He apologised once more, adding that he truly is sincere, and there's barely time to acknowledge him with a nod before he turns his attention back at Addison, "...I'm going to be working with you both for the moment with input, of course, from my colleagues in child and adolescent psychiatry, our neurologist, our psychotherapists, we're going to bring in a nutritionist, physiotherapist -"

"Can I just go back home?"

She'll be okay once she's home.

* * *

 _"What the hell was that?_

 _"Addie -"_

 _"Please go. I can't have that kind of behaviour in my life. Not anymore, Derek."_

 _"Okay, Addison, I'm sorry. I really am."_

 _"Please. I just want to be alone for a while, okay? You can come back later."_

* * *

And he does.

He comes backs up to her room at nightfall, never left the hospital because he has no place else to be and no one else to see.

It's with her that he needs to be - maybe even all along.

The two police officers posted outside her door merely nod at him when he asked if he could go inside. They didn't ask who he was, hardly looked at him, so that must mean they know of him, of who and what he is.

 _Everyone knows._

But that could also mean they weren't doing their duties right. He'll have to bring it up in his meeting with Detective Baker tomorrow. After all it's Poughkeepsie, not the Big Apple.

Soft light bleeds through the cracks as he opens the door, and he watches as the sheer light kiss their skin, watches them sleep contentedly together. _A doleful_ _nightmare_. Clinging to each other - almost as if they are in a desperate, heartbreaking embrace. Like they're both dreaming the same dream that someone is tearing them apart.

He wonders if she dreams happy anymore.

He hears the pattering of his soles on the linoleum as he approaches the bedside. And when he does, he only looks at them; everything - every movement, every crease, arch, every intake of breath, every exhale and word is just utterly sad. Even their eyes holds a sorrow that had broken his heart.

Maybe this is futile.

Maybe he should go back to Seattle.

 _No._

They are a tangle of long colours of strands, different, and he finds her face buried in her son's mane and from the looks of the profile he sees, it's tear tracks; she's been crying and he immediately feels sorry for her.

He wonders what torrid secrets lay under her shell, the tainted stigma of that hidden sin.

But everyone know. Nothing is hidden anymore.

 _Everyone knows._

" _Oh, darling. Oh, Addison_."

The words slips over his lips unintentionally and he's surprised at the depth of emotion in his voice.

 _Why does the sunflower always face the sun?_

Her eyes flutters open.

 _Wide, white, war._

They both startle badly. He gasps and jumps back a little while she nearly falls off the edge, her mouth opens in a scream that doesn't transcend. He catches her arm quickly, fears it'll leave her in bruises, but still he steadies her back atop and she pulls herself to a sitting, then. Her movements of arms and legs look difficult and painful and he hovers above. His grip protectively around her forearm as she catches her breath until she realises and wobbles out of them - angry.

She hasn't been sleeping, he can tell. For years she hasn't, most probably.

When they were interns, when they were pulling all nighters, so dedicated to their careers, that she would wear herself so thin he thought she might break. He would have to physically remove her from the hospital sometimes, coax her back home with him at other times.

But he remembers the dark smudges of purple, sometimes blue, that would stain the delicate skin beneath her eyes, the emptiness that would drain the colour from her irises. He remembers how fragile she looked then.

That was nothing compared to now.

She looks worse than fragile, she looks like she's already been broken into a million pieces and many times after that too.

"It's late, Derek. What are you doing here?" she questions without looking at him. Her voice is ragged, rough like sandpaper scraping at his insides.

He swallows, steps past the invisible threshold that's keeping them apart to stand in front of her. He holds out his hand, waits her out. She sighs, accepts his insistent fingers. He pulls her up, keeps her hand in his grasp.

"You know why."

"I'm not your responsibility." she growls, shaking his fingers from hers. He tightens his grip. Her teeth grind, hard enough to cause her jaw to square sharp enough to slice. "You moved on."

"Does it look like I've moved on?"

It's the most honest thing he's said in years.

"Don't - Don't say that. You're not the one who was taken. You're the one who was _fucking_ somebody else."

"I thought you were dead. I couldn't cope with it anymore, so yeah, I tried."

"By replacing me?" her bottom lip trembles. "Trying to - to erase me?"

 _No! No!_

He chokes on her name. "Addison -"

He used to think about her all the time. _When?_ Every time he breathed.

He touches her cheek, strokes his thumb to that harsh slash of bone. It's been seven years, he's dating Meredith - or dated - renovated his entire life in his best attempt to paste plaster over the broken parts of himself that never stopped yearning for her. But the moment he walked into this very room and saw her, his glass house of believing she was dead shattered, and now...every time he's beside her, it's almost as if those seven years never happened to his heart.

It may be in pieces, but it still yearns for her.

"We'll get through it. We're in this together."

"There is no _we._ " she snaps, pushing his hand away from her face. "Not anymore."

"Addison." he reaches for her again, but, this time, she dodges the hand that tries to brush her arm.

She grits her teeth, glares at him with so much pain in her eyes. She's been through hell and back for so long, but she looks as if the last day is hurting her just as badly - if not, much more - ripping open scars that haven't even had the chance to heal.

"I don't need you."

Oh, but she does and they both know it's a lie she tries to tell herself.

She needs him like the moon. She looks up to him, looks at him, can't live without him.

"I was in _there_ and you - you gave up on me. You fell in love with some pretty blonde and forgot all about me." she gets out, her voice cracking over every other word. "I don't even know what I'm doing here. I shouldn't have come back, I shouldn't have lived through -"

"Stop it." he growls, his ribs collapsing within his chest, deconstructing his lungs, devastating his heart. Leaving it all in rubble and ruins.

She's ruining him.

Her hands are shaking at her sides, her breaths trembling past her lips. He reaches for her, catching her by the sleeve of her shirt. Her chest shudders with a sob and he drags her forward, hugs her tight enough to hold them both together.

"I'm sorry." he whispers, brushing his fingers through her hair and cupping her skull in his palm. She exhales against his shoulder, presses her cheek hard to his clavicle.

"I don't know what I'm doing. I'm...I can't even be a good mother..." she rasps, fisting her fingers in the back of his coat.

She's going crazy. Maybe she already is. And crazies can't be allowed to parent.

"You are." he answers, a flare of conviction burning through his chest. "You are a magnificent mother." _Why can't she see that she is?_ He squeezes her harder, feels her bones give within his arms, but she only burrows deeper into his embrace. "Christopher is just perfect. He's every parent's dream. Well-behaved, polite, smart. You've raised him all by yourself under the circumstances and he's turned out to be the most phenomenal, loving and the sweetest child I've ever had the pleasure to meet."

Her body tenses in his arms and she drops her forehead to his shoulder. He thinks he just added to her wounds.

She don't think so. He'll grow up to understand everything - people will talk and he'll be able to read - and then, he'll resent her. _They always do_. He'll hate her for not getting him out sooner. He'll hate her and he'll leave her too. _They always do._

But his hate will never amount to the hatred she has upon herself for not trying sooner.

She understands. Derek doesn't.

She nods, unfurls her fingers from his coat and presses them to her chest as she eases out of his arms.

" _He..._ " she murmurs, drifting across the room and descending to sit on the edge of the bed. He can see the dark splotch of a bruise blooming from beneath the back of her shirt as she moves to slide beneath the sheets. "I wish _he_ would have just killed me a long time ago. I prayed for it every day before I had Christopher."

He's never heard her so defeated.

She's terrified and paranoid all the time, looking over her shoulder. She thinks she's crazy. More so than when she was in the room.

She thought she'd be better once she's out. She thought it was the room that was slowly killing her, but it wasn't - _god, it wasn't_ \- it's her.

It's all her.

It's all in her head.

It never sleeps.

She doesn't too.

Before, she wouldn't be able to sleep a wink without the assistance of those blue pills. And the doctors are slowly weaning her off of them now, and she doesn't like that she has to.

 _Oh, this must be what Amy was talking about._

Derek strides after her, hesitates for only a moment before sitting down beside her. "I don't."

"I don't want to hurt you anymore." she whispers, closing her eyes. "Just go back to Seattle, Derek."

"It - hurts more to be away from you now."

Her eyes flutter, open up to stare at him.

It's so easy to pretend that they're back at the brownstone, that she's simply lying in bed waiting for him to join her, that they are in fact happy, problem-free and carefree as they ought to be, as they deserve to be.

It aches, how badly he wants to go back. It claws him to shreds with guilt.

He loves Meredith, but he never fell out of love with Addison.

She lifts a fleeting hand to graze her fingers to his cheek. He leans in and her eyes fall to his mouth, her fingers finding their way there first.

Her fingertips caress his lips like a kiss, trickle down to his chin, his throat. They hook in his shirt, hang there for a long moment.

Her gaze flickers back to him, ocean blue with dull traces of age. They used to shine so bright for her.

He combs her hair back from her forehead, those wisps falling in violent waves around her face, the sunken in the hollows of her cheek.

Not sleeping or eating enough.

 _So little. So skinny._

He now knows why guilt is a lone dark wolf. It runs, ducks and weaves, daring him to pin it down. Its doleful howl is unrelenting. He long to put it out of its misery, but it is ever elusive. Taunting him with its agility.

Her hand slips to his chest, pauses to rest over his heart. Her palm seals to his sternum as he bows forward, lips making soft contact with the tip of her nose. She sucks in a breath, but shifts onto her side before he can kiss her lips.

He drops his forehead to her temple, lingers there before drawing back to allow her the space to settle.

She curls back into bed with the sleeping little boy, cuddles him close and he hears her whisper an _'I love you'_ in his ear. She moves with her back to him and he sees what she's doing, so he takes off his shoes and slides in behind her.

She doesn't deny the tangle of his arms around her, the snug fit of his chest to her spine, his nose at her neck.

"Do you still love me?"

It's a whisper so soft, he barely hears it.

Meredith asked him the same question this morning.

He also speaks to her in wordless silence.

 _I do._

I do.

He presses his lips to her hair, the bruise on her shoulder too.

 _Why does the sunflower always face the sun?_

He holds her through the terrors that haunt her in the dark and stays until the light of morning spills through the blinds.

It's answer enough.

* * *

 _ **Soooo...what do you guys think?**_

 _ **Finally updated. So sorry for being so late. I'm really embarrassed.**_

 _ **Enjoyed?**_

 _ **This was by far the difficult-est chapter to write. I hope I did well.**_

 _ **What do you think of Addison? And Derek? Christopher?**_

 _ **There will be more interactions between Derek and Christopher in future chapters. I feel like with their personalities, both of them won't be so forth in becoming BFFs that quick. Right?**_

 _ **I don't know.**_

 _ **Please please leave a review!**_

 _ **REVIEW!**_


	11. Chapter 11 - Day 04: T is for Trauma

_Hey guys! Remember me? Is it too late now to say sorry?_

 _I'm back with an update. :) Life prevailed me from updating and I kinda had a severe case of writer's block too. Hopefully it's not contagious. ;) Oh, and I had to cut this chapter in half because it was just way too embarrassingly long and this is so long already and I realised if I don't post this one, I'm never going to. My head's all over the place right now. So, I'm just praying I'll be able to update the next chapter quicker than this one._

 _I hope you like this update. Please leave a review._

 _REVIEW!!_

 **Chapter 11 - Day 04**

 _Day 04 : T is for Trauma. . ._

* * *

 _"How is Meredith? Have you called her? I heard she's -"_

 _"No, I don't think it's that we should be talking about now."_

 _"Oh. I just - Derek, I'm sorry."_

 _"You don't have to keep saying that."_

* * *

She dreams of freckles and laughter, running through a meadow of dandelions and mallow trees.

She's five again.

She dreams of the ocean late at night and longs for the wild salt air.

She dreams of Florence, cheese shops, persnickety fiats and very fine leather.

She'd just graduated high school.

She dreams of that night, like she does many nights before, moonlight in her hair and a warm mouth roaming over her body, strong fingers gripping her hips, hard, slick heat pulsing inside of her.

 _Mark._

She dreams in snippets of everything horrible that follows.

Sheets and apologies and clothes and stairs and arms, arms and tears and rain, _pitter-patter_ , and doors and wrists and fists, fists, _Addison-and-Derek_ , then darkness, then she woke up bound and in a trunk.

Seven years gone, just like that.

 _Derek._

She dreams of red, of so much red on the winter cold, damp cement, that was scraping the fragile skin of her spine, the dark curly head of hair ( _an all-Shepherd definite trait_.) was mute and blue and tangled, and she almost - just almost died at the ripping pain. But then, she did die later with her when she was ripped out of her arms.

She dreams of the heavy porcelain that snapped her wrist and the cold concrete that became her friend for days there after. The deafening thoughts, an accompaniment to her running mind, the certainty she can't ever operate again.

But it's not like any hospitals will ever be dying to have her hold a scalpel now.

She's nothing if not a surgeon.

She feels a phantom blow to her hand sometimes, hitting her almost always unexpectedly, but always _always_ with the same crushing intensity. It's like it doesn't ever want her to forget. She'd hiss or gasp, and sometimes tears would gather in her eyes too. She'll look down, half expecting to see a distorted, pulsating hand, but always doesn't.

She wakes in cold sweat to the memory of Bizzy's vehement laughter echoing with the atoms in the air.

She knows that day, remembers it like it was yesterday because that day was really the start of her ever-lasting insecurities, when the child in her was slowly forced to die.

Because at eight when your own mother regard you to her country club friends as the ' _ugly duckling_ ' and not by your given name, that does something to a child.

Because at eight when you ask your father whether you're good looking, and his response was to only blink, speechless to your question, but before running up to your room to hide, he said, and with great hesitance too, that your face has character.

Not answering at all would have done less damage and lying to her face would have been more than just fine, too.

That afternoon, she ran up to her room and cried. _Of_ _course_. Mostly because she was lonely, she didn't have anyone to talk to anymore - not that the housekeepers weren't anyone, it was just different, the whole experience/conversation as a whole ( _they were being paid to listen to her_.), than when she'd talk to Archer. Because by then, he was sent off to France for three years to study. And what's worse than living in a cold mansion alone with Bizzy is Archer coming back home completely unrecognisable.

Three years gone, just like that.

He was so much taller than her. He was also bigger and had hair everywhere. He didn't even sound like the Archer that had left just three years prior. His hands and feet grew clown-like and he was so much stronger too. _Well, still is._ He didn't want to play with her anymore, so they didn't do much of anything together, not like they used to. He had his own friends while she only had their next door neighbour ( _navigating female friendships is so complicated._ ).

He was fifteen and she was eleven.

He was a completely new person while she stayed the same; he even said it himself.

 _Still afraid of the dark, huh? Addie, you'll never change._

Yeah, she never grew out of her fear of the dark like her therapist said she would. Not until she had to.

And that's what Bizzy does, she takes away things that are beautiful to make you realise that yes - while everyone love, no one actually likes you.

She hears her mother again and her vehement laughter echoed her back to the 1975 heat wave.

She remembers it just being too burning hot, too damn sticky and too much joy and laughter that day ( _and since everything in the universe has to be a balance, sorrow and tears inevitably came right after._ ), the temperature was well over a hundred degrees, recorded as the highest in Connecticut since 1955. Oh, and she remembers a smaller version of herself running after Archer and his friends at the backyard, jumping into the pool while the housekeepers warned them about not getting the carpets wet. But she did, in fact, get the carpets soaked when she crawled to hide underneath the grand piano as they played hide-and-seek.

Maybe she shouldn't have, because they were only to hide somewhere outside. Besides it's Bizzy's number one rule to never ever run around or play _in_ the house. Not when there were vintage antiques and millions of dollars in art and taste just lying around so precariously - but, even then, she was a cheater and a liar.

 _Once a cheater always a cheater._

Minutes later, as she was still waiting under the piano, hiding from the boys, she heard her name come up in Bizzy's conversation. Curiosity killed her and she found herself crawling towards the voices, then pressing her back to the adjacent wall and eavesdropped to the adults talking about their children and something about their first born being the hardest. Even though, she didn't understand it meant, she clearly recalls waiting for Bizzy to say something menacing about Archer, so she'll finally be better than him.

They did say that the first is always the hardest.

 _Right?_

But then, she heard Bizzy snicker and they all laughed in succession, but there wasn't anything funny about what her mother was telling her friends because it was colourful words about her.

 _That little nightmare cried for six hours straight one night, I did what every good mother would do, I called the agency; have the nanny handle her tantrums._

 _Why did you think we stopped at her?_

She ran up to her room and cried herself to sleep. It was perhaps a couple of days after that eavesdropping incident that she decided to confront Bizzy. She asked her whether she'd be sad if she was _gone forever_. Gone forever, being the code word and metonymy for dead because Montgomeries, though just WASPs, they do not speak directly of death.

They walk past it, around it too, jump over it, maybe, make detours and u-turns, but they will never be caught engaging in the topic. Not even when Grandmother Forbes was dying or when she actually did shortly there after - it was as if they were suppose to understand what was happening, the reason for relatives they didn't even knew existed to be filling their home, clad in black and with sad-smelling flowers.

Montgomeries are predisposed to not mention about death and dying, but what they do talk about is sex, drugs, alcohol and money.

Death is taboo, and she knew beforehand that there was a huge risk of upsetting her mother, but she'd barely been sleeping lately because she really needed to know if Bizzy even cares about her, even the slightest. She doesn't care about the numbers, she just needed to know if she ever did because ever since she can remember, it was as if she doesn't - never have, to be precise.

 _Bizzy, would you be sad if I was gone forever?_

Her mother just gave her one of her stares, the briefest of glances from the vanity. She couldn't decipher the twinge in her eyes then, now, she knows it's one of fear.

It's the same look she knows Christopher sees whenever she looks at him. _Fear_. Fear of losing him. Fear of the person he might become. Fear of not being the best for him. Fear of what he doesn't know. Fear of all the things he'll come to hear and know. Fear of those questions. Fear of him being denied by the people she loves. Fear of the judgment against them - for the choice she made and for the DNA he has no say in.

When Bizzy didn't give her an immediate answer, she continued to eagerly press for one, moving a step closer to her mother and speaking louder this time. "Will you be sad if I was gone, Bizzy?"

She sighed, rolled her eyes before snapping the jewellery box, that housed her shiny and pearly treasures, shut. "Addison, it's a school night and your semantics is starting to give me a little bit of a migraine. So, why don't you be a dear now and head up to your room?"

But she ignored her, stared into her mother's face at the mirror. She needed to know.

She heard that daughters are set to inherit their mother's face. But she doesn't want Bizzy's cold and stiff face, like the reflection in front of her, void of the paint that had enhanced her features and made her more approachable.

"Bizzy ..."

Still, she waited. But it was as if she hadn't even heard her, she didn't turn around to look at her at all, just another glance - no, maybe it should be considered as a glimpse - and this time she's a glimpse of annoyance; brows scrunched to the middle in a mixture of irritation and confusion. She reached out to one of the drawers and pulled out an orange bottle, screwed the cap open before popping two happy pills into her mouth.

 _Maybe if she rephrased ..._

"What if Archer was _gone forever_? You would be sadder, wouldn't you?"

Her mother used to say that trust is a luxury she cannot afford and control is one she cannot lose and for all the thirty-plus years she's been Bizzy's daughter, she's only ever seen her lose that control once.

It was that night and she watched with almost like a compulsion, obsession, and sheer fascination in her wide innocent blues at how her mother's sense of control slowly but surely cracked, resembling a cracking vase and came emerging is this awfully strange vulnerability of an emotion. It was so new and different for her to witness, that it left her frozen in place. Her feet stayed woven to the Persian carpet, the frown, that look of disappointment that was a constant on Bizzy, and something else too - she watched her watch her like she was some kind of stranger she doesn't recognise.

 _I'm your daughter, mommy._

She didn't say any of that, though, abruptly too stunned to even duck or run or think of a defence because she heard a sharp ringing in her ear before she even felt the sharp sting of Bizzy's slap.

"What's wrong with you?" she screamed and grabbed her by the arms, nails digging ( _they left marks for weeks_.), and shaking her so hard that her vision blurred to stars.

She heard her father's voice over her mother's sharp shrills moments later. His footsteps pounding quickly towards them, prying Bizzy's bruising claws off her arm with much effort.

She did not cry.

She was too stunned to do much of anything, let alone react accordingly as an eight year old.

"Kitten." he said softly, like a whisper, rubbing his hands over the raised marks of Bizzy's imprints on her arms.

There was much concern in his tone and maybe even too much for her to care about, because it wasn't from whom she wanted the care from. But she remembers feeling quite content at that moment, that she could have even flashed a smile.

Well, at least her father cared about her.

"There's something very _very_ wrong with your daughter, Howard!"

Bizzy was, to say the least, frantic and hysterical, stuttering over her every word as she yelled for the Captain to listen to her.

"Oh, stop it, Bizzy! That is enough!" he banged his fist down on the vanity and she gasped when something rolled over and shattered.

She had never actually heard her father shout at her mother until that time.

"You're being ridiculous! She's only a child!"

And then the silence in their home became much louder than usual. She didn't know if she should say something or nothing at all. She wanted to apologise for causing the trouble but when she looked up at Bizzy, who looked as though she might as well just strangle her father, she chose to stay quiet.

"Look," the Captain beckoned, gently lifting her elbow for Bizzy to examine the prickles of blood rising at her skin. "Look at what you've done, she's bleeding."

She didn't even know she was.

Bizzy looked down at her, icy and stiff and angry, then back up when she spoke to the Captain. _Betrayed_. "Wonderful. Then, that's proof your daughter's human."

No one knows this but that night she ran away. _Well, she tried to._ She packed clothes, shoes, her hairbrush and a sandwich, wrote Archer and her parents a letter and held onto her stuffed penguin while her parents argued and once, the mansion was no longer in a heated dispute, she tiptoed down the marble staircase with _Huggsy_ in her arms and sneaked out the large front door.

She walked and walked, aimlessly of course. She hadn't exactly had a plan or anywhere in mind to run away to.

All she knew was that she hated living in that house.

Then, it started to get really really dark, pitch black even. There were no lampposts on the next street and so, she panicked, knows that she can't cross the street without Archer holding her hand, so she walked all the way back home, got into the Captain's car and went to sleep.

The driver found her the next morning, asked her what she was doing in there. She ignored him and ran up to her room quickly so no one would notice her _gone_. And no one did - not that she expected a different, more favourable outcome if anyone did.

Maybe it was what he needed from them.

 _Panic, perhaps._

The appropriate reaction you get when your child's gone missing.

No one but her knows the extent of her patheticism and the title remains unchanged.

The unintentional silver lining that night, the Captain _loves_ about her.

 _Loved_ her; past tense.

Because if he actually still does, he would look past the issues he's apparently having and have accepted _them_ \- her and her son included, regardless of the circumstances.

She isn't asking much from her father, just for him to acknowledge Christopher as family; his grandson.

That's it. Nothing else.

It's that simple.

But he couldn't even look at him. Her own father couldn't even stand the sight of her son. And that look she saw on his face - _Hate? Disgust? Anger?_ \- it's good she turned away quickly before she had the chance to decipher it.

 _But should biology even matter to anyone?_

Because it doesn't, to her.

"Ma?" Christopher says firmly, leaning back against her as he sits on her lap and gazes up at her like he's searching for something.

The simple endearment still hits her hard sometimes, it's been five years - yes, she's been a mother for the last five years but the title still feels foreign at times.

More so now than ever.

She looks at him, strokes the few feathers of hair that floats above his eyes. It sometimes breaks her heart to look at him.

"Why Grandpa didn't want to see me? Was he expecting another Christopher?"

She puffs a breath that titters, sounding a lot more calm about the fact because she can't have Christopher knowing that his grandfather, whom she's been telling _wonderful_ things about all this time ( _she's pushing it, she knows._ ), isn't exactly fond of him, the way a grandfather should.

Not that her own grandfather was ever fond of her anyway.

All he ever did was yell and complain and remind her of what happens to women when they let their emotions get the best of them.

 _You can't let your womanly emotions consume you. You don't want to end up like your grandmother, do you?_

Oh, yes, how can she ever forget Grandmother Montgomery who had half a mind and a grotesque scar on her forehead from the lobotomy that left her in a shell of her formerly self.

"He thinks - he thought I'd be better off without you."

"Somewhere else?"

"No, if you'd never been born - Imagine." she snickers and rolls her eyes, attempting another remark of the ridiculousness of her father but then, as an arm comes up to hug her torso, she pauses and thinks about it too.

 _If Christopher had never been born ..._

 _... then, she wouldn't be here today._

 _... then, she wouldn't have any purpose._

 _... then, she wouldn't be the person she is today._

She tries again, but there isn't one, not even a single imaginary scenario where a once upon time did not include Christopher.

Reminiscing the past is never a positive and now, it's disturbingly intruding her mind, she can't believe that there is this whole chunk of her life wasted on resenting her parents, Derek and their marriage, and resenting herself too.

So wasteful. So sad. So shitty.

It's odd to think about the completely different path she was on before. She was so disparate and _... selfish?_

She is all the things wrong with herself.

"Then," he starts and turns around, looking up at her again, "Would you still be Ma?"

"No. I wouldn't." she says, shaking her head. _She wouldn't_. "It doesn't matter what he thinks now. I'll always be _your_ Ma, no matter what. Forever. No one can change that."

He puts his small hands on either of her cheeks; his smile melting all her sorrows and worries away - _who knew just the precious gesture could make her feel much better about ... everything?_

"Forever and ever?"

He sounds happier now and she can't help pulling him down for another hug.

"Forever and ever."

Her eyes are soft as she looks at him.

 _Your first is always the hardest._

But that's a lie because, technically, Christopher wasn't her first.

* * *

 _"Oh, Kitten!"_

 _"Dad -"_

 _"I told your brother I didn't want -"_

 _"Dad, this is Christopher."_

 _"Addison - I - I - no offense."_

 _"What do you mean, 'no offense'?"_

 _"I can't be in the same room -_ it _makes me shudder."_

"It _? There is no_ it _. He's a boy. He's five years old."_

 _"I'm saying it wrong, I'm - it's the jet lag. I'll call you later from the hotel, okay?"_

 _"No! No, it's not okay! He means the world to me!"_

 _"Of course, it's only natural. But all I can think of is that beast and what he -"_

 _"So, you'd rather think of me as dead. You had all this time, so why stop now?"_

* * *

Everything is backwards today. Everything is not how it's suppose to go. Actually, in _Outside_ , everything is all always backwards. But Ma says the _Outside_ is the right way and not in _Room_ , because here, we are living and there was just surviving.

I don't know what she means, really, because in _Room_ , we were living too.

But everything here is different and confusing and _Room_ was easy.

Here, I have to remember all of the people's names and their faces. In _Room_ was only Ma and me and sometimes _he_ but not seeing _his_ face. Now, there is just too many, so I get them all mixed up in my head and then, they're not the right persons with the right name anymore and Ma has to correct me.

She taught me how to remember - Dr. Blaine is who comes to see us always and is a man doctor with the black hair and glasses, but Dr. Vause also has glasses, only, she's a girl doctor with black hair. Nurse Maureen is the nurse with the weird voice, Ma says she's just got a different accent because she was from another country. Uncle Archer is Ma's brother but not Uncle Derek. He's her - I don't really know, Ma says it's complicated to explain.

Complicated means she doesn't want to tell me yet.

I think she'll tell me when I'm six.

Grandma is in heaven now, she is Ma's mother, and it makes her sad and me too because I really wanted her to see me so she could read to me.

Ma says we'll go to the cemetery when the doctors lets us leave the hospital and I can read to Grandma instead.

A cemetery is where bodies of persons who are in heaven stays forever. I think maybe she can hear us from there, that's why.

I saw Grandpa in cafeteria yesterday. He is Ma's father and he's real for real, like she said, not in heaven, but he don't really wanted to see me. I don't know why.

Maybe I said something bad. Maybe I done something bad.

But I only said, _'Hello, Grandpa'_ like Ma told me to. He said not to call him that. I don't know what else to call him.

Uncle Archer told Ma last night that Grandpa is going back to Connecticut, that's where the house with the fountain is, the one Ma grew up in.

I don't think we're ever going there, though.

Ma is still very angry at Grandpa.

In _Outside_ , we can wake up, take a nap and sleep at any time we want. We can also not sleep at night at all too because Ma says _he's_ never going to bother us anymore.

 _He_ doesn't know where we are and if _he_ does, there are police and people who are going to help us.

In _Outside_ , all the many lights always on hurts my eyes. I see weird dots that are not real for real there.

We can also eat all the food we want, until our tummies hurt.

It's ten o'clock now, not breakfast time anymore but I'm hungry again.

Another confusing is you can eat at any time you want.

I tell Ma that I'm hungry but breakfast is over, she says not to worry because Uncle Archer _brung_ me pancakes from a place called a restaurant.

I never had pancakes from a restaurant before or even just pancakes at all in _Room_ and now that I do, I think it's the best food ever. I especially love the syrup; maple syrup is what Uncle Archer says it's called. It's made from a special maple tree but I don't believe him, trees are not meant to be sweet.

"If you want, I could take you to see one, once you're out of here - and if your mom approves." Uncle Archer tells me.

He's looking at Ma now.

I like the idea and we could make our own maple syrup too!

"Ma, can we? Please?"

Ma is brushing my hair back with our new comb. This one has all the teeth. "Sure, sweetie. Sounds great - then, we could finally put your jeep to good ..."

She stops talking suddenly, like she's remembering something, but I don't think that was to me she was saying to.

 _What jeep? Does she mean my toy_ _truck?_

It's left in _Room._

"Didn't you ran off to Seattle with that jeep, Derek?"

That's Uncle Archer saying to Uncle Derek.

I don't think they like each other very much. Ma says Uncle Archer is only being mean to Uncle Derek because he's being protective.

"Archer. Stop."

I never knew Ma could be angry at Uncle Archer too.

"I'm so sorry, Derek. I shouldn't have said anything."

"It's fine."

Everyone is being quiet now. So, I continue eating my pancakes and the maple syrup. Ma says I'm doing it all wrong and backwards because syrup is suppose to be put on pancakes, not drinking on it's own but I don't like pancakes to be gooey and wet.

I take one sip and another when no one is looking. But I think Uncle Derek saw my sneaking and I stop because I remember a story Ma told me of before she was in _Room_ , Uncle Derek was really angry at her when she did a lie and then, she became lost -

There's a knock somewhere, I think from door.

I don't want to be lost.

There's another knock.

It's Nurse Maureen and Dr. Blaine again with a police, but not the yellow hair one, who was asking Ma questions last night. I don't remember ever seeing this one.

That's three more persons in room now and three of us, that equals six. It's nearly full of arms and legs and chests.

They're all saying words so loud and altogether till it hurts in my head. It feels like I'm vibrating with all their words and their breathing. I don't like this feeling.

"Stop all talking at the same time." I say it only on mute.

I squish my fingers in my ears and shut my eyes.

"You want a surprise, Christopher?"

It is me Ma is asking question to now, I didn't know that until I open my eyes. Nurse Maureen is gone and Uncle Archer and Uncle Derek and the police too.

I shake my head.

Dr. Blaine says, "I'm not sure this is the most advisable -"

"Christopher, it's the best news." Ma interrupts him and she put her hands to my face. Her eyes are shiny.

She holds up pictures. I see who it is without even going close, it's _him_.

 _Him!_

The same face as when I peeked at _him_ in Bed in the night that time, but _he_ has a sign around _his_ neck and _he's_ against numbers like we marked my height on birthdays, _he's_ nearly at the six and the five but not quite. There's a picture where _he's_ looking sideways and another where he's looking at me.

"In the middle of the night, the police caught _him_ at the border and put _him_ in jail. That's where _he'll_ stay." says Ma. "Hopefully forever."

I wonder if _his_ truck will be in jail too.

"Does looking at the pictures trigger any of the symptoms we were talking about?" Dr. Blaine is asking her.

She rolls her eyes. "After seven years of the real deal, you think I'm going to crumble at a photo?"

"What about you, Christopher, how does it feel?"

I don't know the answer.

"I'm going to ask you a question," says Dr. Blaine, "but you don't have to answer it unless you want to, okay?"

I look at him then back at the pictures.

 _He's_ stuck in the numbers place and _he_ can't get out. Not ever.

Ma and I were stuck too. But we got out.

 _Did we do a bad thing too?_

"Did this man ever do anything you didn't like?"

I nod.

"Can you tell me what _he_ did?"

" _He_ _cutted_ off the power so the vegetables went slimy."

"Right. But did _he_ ever hurt you?"

Ma says, shaking her head, "Don't -"

Dr. Blaine puts his hand up. "Nobody is doubting your word." he tells her. "But think of all the nights you were asleep. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't ask Christopher, himself, now, would I?"

Ma lets her breath out very long.

"It's okay." she says to me and rubs my back, "You can answer. Did ... _he_ ever hurt you?"

"Yeah." I say, "Two times."

They're both staring now. It's quiet again.

"When I was doing the Great Escape, _he_ dropped me in the truck and also on the street, the second hurts the worst."

"Okay," says Dr. Blaine. He's smiling, I don't know why. "I'll get onto the lab right away to see if they need another sample from you both for DNA." he tells Ma.

" _DNA_?!" She's got her crazy voice on again. Maybe Dr. Blaine didn't say a nice thing. "You think I had other visitors?"

"I think this is how the courts work, every box has got to be ticked."

Ma's sucking her whole mouth in so her lips are invisible.

"Monsters are let off on technicalities every day." He sounds all fierce. "Okay?"

Ma nods. "Okay."

When he's gone, I rip my mask off and I ask, "Is he mad at us?"

Ma shakes her head. "No. He's mad at _him_."

I didn't think Dr. Blaine even knows _him_ , I thought we were the only ones.

* * *

 _"How's my favourite nephew?"_

 _"Very well, thank you, Uncle Archer."_

 _"Even with Bizzy gone - in heaven, I mean, you're still working hard to please her."_

 _"It's just common mannerism everyone must know, Archer."_

 _"Whoa. I wonder if it's a positive that you're starting to sound like our mother - Oh, by the way, Naomi and Sam, and what's her name, Savvy - they've all been calling."_

 _"Oh ..."_

 _"They're dying to see you."_

 _"I'm - the doctors says I'm not quite up for visits yet."_

 _"Right, of course."_

* * *

Nurse Maureen comes into our room with bags.

"You know, you could knock, right?"

I don't think that's Ma asking a question. She's nearly shouting and then, she puts my mask on and then hers.

"Sorry." says Nurse Maureen. "I did, actually, but I'll be sure to do it louder next time."

"Oh, no, no, I'm sorry, I didn't - I was talking to Christopher. Maybe I heard it but I didn't know it was the door."

"Oh, it's alright."

"There are sounds from - the other rooms, I hear things and I don't know if it's - where it is or what."

"It must all seem a bit strange."

Ma kind of laughs.

"And as for this young man -", Maureen's eyes are all shiny. "Would you like to see your new clothes?"

They're not _our_ clothes, they're different ones I have never seen before and in bags too. Maureen says if they don't fit or we don't like them she will take them right back to the store to get other new ones.

I try on everything.

I like the pyjamas best, they're filled with astronauts on them. It's like a costume of a boy in TV. There's shoes that do on with scratchy stuff that sticks called Velcro. I like the sounds it makes when putting them open and close. _rrrrrpppp rrrrrpppp_. It's hard to walk though, they feel heavy like they'll trip me. I prefer to wear them when I'm on the bed, I wave my feet in the air and then it's not so heavy anymore.

Ma is in a jeans that's too tight, I don't like it.

"That's how _they're_ wearing them these days." says Maureen, "And God knows you've got the figure for it."

"Who's they?" I ask.

"Youngsters."

Ma grins, I don't know why. She puts on a shirt that's too tight too. I don't like how she looks. Like not Ma at all.

"Those aren't your real clothes." I whisper to her.

"They are now."

* * *

 _"Can I ask you something?"_

 _"Addie, of course. You don't have to ask."_

 _"Right, but - you ... you can't get angry."_

 _"Addison - hey, it's okay - Addie, you have nothing to be afraid of. I promise I won't."_

 _"But you will."_

 _"Addison."_

 _"It's, umm - Mark? Have you guys - How is he?"_

* * *

 ** _Eight Years Ago_**

* * *

Their silence is louder than usual.

It never bothered him before - quiet between two, so intertwined, so wrapped up in something so bewilderingly brute.

Tonight, their silence isn't particularly uncomfortable, it's merely the absence of what should be sounding, like chatter or laughter or even gossip. Because they're on their way back home from the hospital's Gala and Addison usually, by years of experience, always has everything to say about everything.

 _Not today, though._

So, yes, it's bothering him now, all but consuming his mind too. Because he knows there is something wrong and he knows it's him that has done the wrong because she's not speaking to him, not even daring to look at him.

And he says nothing while she says nothing and everywhere, there is nothing.

He prays for the radio to work its charm with those magic changes, give him a song to sing, give him anything that would be better than this small talk between two so intertwined.

"You're awfully quiet." he says and she chooses to say nothing instead, because the right side of her brain has a lot to say but her left knows not to say it.

But what she wants to say is, _"I know that you don't want me here."_

The thought, clear like perfectly formed ice, echoes through her mind ( _I know that you_ _don't want me here, I know that you don't want me here ..._ ). Somehow that is the one thing worse than this deafening silence because it's the truth and they both know it.

She want to scream, _"Can't you see that I'm hurting?"_

It's written all over her face, in smiles that don't reach her eyes, in lips joined in vowed silence.

"I missed you tonight." he says and she says nothing again, but she wants to be the braveheart and cry something bold, like _"If that is so, then how come you don't come home more often?"_ , but she holds her tongue, never mind that he hardly paid any attention to her at the Gala, she knows her thoughts are poison, yet they are her thoughts.

And she says nothing while he says nothing and their silence says everything.

Until they're not haunted in silence anymore, that is.

They existed the town car they hired for the evening and are now stomping up limestone steps.

It's loud and it echoes and it vibrates carelessly in his eardrums.

 _Click. Click. Click._

There goes her heels. _Red bottoms_. Her legs do look stunning in Christian Louboutins ( _he has four sisters and a wife, it'd be a cardinal sin if he doesn't know what that was_.)

Besides the stomping, they're otherwise still very much silent but he reckons they certainly could wake the neighbours up with all their thunderbolt footfalls.

 _They? Or is it just his precious wife?_

They're stomping up the steps to the front door and - _oh, no, no -_ she is the only one in the two of them making her aggression known by punishing these poor pre-war, before the World-War II, porch.

 _Stomp. Stomp. Stomp._

His are as sound as a tonne of feathers.

 _Click. Click. Click._

He doesn't want to go inside with her, each of those stomps are signals telling him how much time he has left before they're bound for another fight tonight.

Yet he can always just go straight to bed and ignore her too.

But then, they'll be doing whatever this is tomorrow or, with his luck, for another few days or even longer.

As Shakespeare would say, _to ignore or not to ignore, that is the question._

Then, he remembers something else his father once told him - _If we choose to, we can live in a world of comforting illusions. We can allow ourselves to be deceived by false realities or we can use them to hide our true intentions._

He definitely resonates to it now.

He didn't quite get what it meant, then. Mostly because he was distract by the Yankees on TV. But he still remembers that afternoon like it was yesterday, raw, painful and fresh, because it was the last game he watched with his father.

 _Dad, Mark and him._

A week later, he watched him die, watched as the bullet disappear into his father, watch the blood pool, then drip, watched him take his last breath.

There was just too much of it, blood, for anyone to not succumb to their injuries. He knew it, then. He didn't need a medical degree to know that.

 _Silence. Silence. Silence._

There was so much of that too after the resounding trigger.

 _Blood. Blood. Blood._

His father's blood.

It was all he could smell along with the gunpowder. And from where he was hiding, covering Amy's eyes, and trying so hard not to cry too, it was as if he could see his father's spirit leave his body.

For a while, he was driven by anger and guilt. Everything made him angry and guilty - holidays, birthdays, even laughing was a crime.

He hates thinking about his father because every little thing will lead him to that night when he was thirteen and helpless. So, he chose not to think about him.

 _... comforting illusions ... false realities ... true intentions ..._

He sighs. Something is bothering Addison ( _well, no doubt there._ ) and he's not going to be deceived by the facade she's putting on.

Like a mask, of sorts.

This is typical Montgomery behaviour.

All they really ever do is exhaust him with their need to repress their emotions because for some cosmic reason, emotions are frowned upon.

It's ironic because shouldn't she already know hiding her emotions like she is will only lead him to getting annoyed of her, which potentially could transcend to an argument because of what he or she may or may not say.

Well, he assumes wanting to not stir up an argument with him is her motivation for this charade they're not playing, but apparently, are.

 _Because why else would she waste so much time and energy on being mad?_

He understands that this was how she was brought up, her life was built on the idea and illusion of perfection, but sometimes, it's frustrating having to deal with her.

 _Click. Click. Click._

She's still stomping her steps.

Well, she is, quite frankly, doing a rather bad job at covering up her true intentions, if that's what she's trying to do.

He's close, behind the women who's dancing in flames, but not too close since he knows, by experience, that it's a certainty he'll get himself scorned if he just so much as stand a step too close and breathe in her air.

He thinks the right thing for them is to put this non-argument to rest before going to sleep because _they_ did say couples should never go to bed angry if they want to wake up the next day unharmed and undead.

But he really doesn't want to ask her what's bothering her because he knows, also by experience, that _that_ will only cause her to burn hotter.

Because, to her, he should already know.

 _How? What? Why? Where she heard that from? And who the hell told her that?_

But then, he's her husband, it is his said duty to at least pretend that he's concerned.

 _Right?_

But then again, he doesn't feel like doing the husbandly thing right now. He's tired.

He thinks he should try, though.

It's a jumble up there.

 _Sleep. Bed. Quiet._

Those are his intentions.

When the black wooden door slides open, he motions for her to get in first.

Well, only because he's a true gentleman and chivalry is certainly not dead - _not yet, at least_ \- and definitely not because it's possible that she's got a knife stashed somewhere in her purse, ready to stab him in the back.

But he also wants to know what he had done. He doesn't recall having said anything that wasn't thought out through and through, twice, notwithstanding. And no, he's sure he didn't accidentally spill anything to anyone that he shouldn't have.

 _Oh, he's sure he didn't._

But those heels are telling him that he definitely slipped up tonight.

He bites back a smile and so does she as he watches her step into the threshold and saunter off to flick the light switch on.

Her steps are calmer now. Hips swaying with her dress.

 _Soft. Smooth. Silent._

Like a predator hunting it's prey.

He's exhausted - navigating through Addison's emotions is much more tiresome than a double shift at the hospital.

Oh, he now knows he won't sleep a wink tonight.

She'll purposefully bother him with her loud and icy sighs, her equally loud and frustrated thoughts too, which he must say are just as piercing if she were to be screaming, her painfully sharp elbows and knees and other pointy parts, her very intentional tossing and turning that eventually will take up half of his side.

Oh, his wife is menacing and filled with intentions when she's angry.

He eases the door shut behind him as quietly as he can, the soles of his shoes squeaks on the polished hardwood floor and he cringes at the screech of sound.

 _Oops._

He apologises as he turns around to the foyer, frowning to see her already at the bar, pouring herself a hearty amount.

She's halfway draining the contents in the glass by the time he makes it over to her.

"Nothing for me?" he arches a brow, then smiles to lighten the mood.

Addison usually pours out two or she'd ask if he wants one. _Routine_. He guess tonight isn't one of their usual nights.

And she doesn't say anything.

And his attempts at salvaging the rest of their evening seems to be fruitless now that her only response is to peer at him from over the rim of her glass.

Her eyes looks tired, unimpressed, her brow is arched, speaking louder than words needed.

 _Does it look like I'm pouring you a drink, Derek?_

 _Get one yourself, Derek._

 _I'm your wife, not your mother, Derek._

 _Everything is fine, Derek._

 _Everything is great, Derek._

 _I'm not mad at all, Derek._

It could be any one of those responses.

Another point added for another thing that he's done or said wrong tonight.

"Addie," he says suddenly and his next couple of words caught him off guard when his eyes bore into hers, inquisitive. "Why are you angry?"

He guess he's done with charades, especially when she's not being cooperative.

She bristles, looks as though she's the tiniest bit fascinated and leans back a little on the shelf, tilts her head sideways and shrugs, "Who says I'm angry, _Derek_?"

 _There_. Even the way she enunciates his name screams animosity.

"After all these years, you don't think I can read you?"

She exhales, swirls what's left of the drink in her glass, then quickly downs the rest in a gulp. "Well, if I'm such an open book, what am I angry about?"

"So you _do_ admit you're angry." he states, smug and sure of himself.

She scoffs, one hand is propped on her hip. "I admit to no such thing."

"You know this _thing_ you're doing -"

"- and what _thing_ would that be?"

He stares at her for a moment, contemplating whether he ought to continue because whatever he has to say next may or may not have him sleeping on the couch ( _according to Addison, the guest room is only for guests, even if they hadn't had one in over three years._ ) and also she's standing over him like a challenge - in the literal sense - and he's never liked confronting her when she's not ... _lucid_.

She's always _always_ ready for battle.

It's a weird Montgomery trait, he suddenly realises because all those he's had the _'wonderful pleasure'_ of meeting are either clad head to toe in an invisible armour or in snarky remarks. Or like Addison, both.

"You put on this plastic face to keep me in the dark about what you're really feeling. And - and I walk around on eggshells for days, not knowing which end is up."

And she doesn't say anything.

He isn't sure if she's heard him. She's staring and chewing her bottom lip, that means she's deep in thought. But then, she walks away, pretends to not hear him call out for her and stalks away to the adjoining open kitchen.

He stands there dumbly for good three more second, blinking back at the spot where she used to be. He's confused now because - _weren't they just having a conversation? Where is she going?_ Nonetheless, he follows suit, knowing very well that he's either smack on point or almost on point.

Either, he's close to the truth.

"Addison?"

She closes the refrigerator door and turns to him, arms crossed. The edges of her lips flicker with the threat of amusement.

Her whole stance screams hostile, and definitely not amused.

She does that sometimes, stare deeply into the depths of the cold, giant box, like she's fishing for answers. Sometimes, even too often - in the morning, afternoon and late at night when they should be brushing their teeth and going to bed.

He'd ask whether she's hungry but she never is.

 _What is she looking for or is it just to look?_

He doesn't get it. And it actually drives him crazy because the longer it stays open, the higher the numbers their bills will be.

"So ..." he prompts again.

Frustration pinches the corners of her eyes and she exhales heavily. "Well ... maybe I don't feel safe sharing every single thought and emotion I have with you."

"Hmm. Whoa, that's a horrible thing to say. I didn't know you felt that way." he sighs and shifts a little closer, fixes her with a steady, even gaze and she lifts her chin to meet his eyes. "Addie, of course you can feel safe with me. I'm your husband. I love you."

He searches her eyes.

They're still dark with pain but they're also so focused on him. She's looking at him, all of him, tearless, and he wonders again what he has done so awful that it's actually tormenting her in this way.

It's now troubling him that he's troubled her.

"Please, Addie, tell me."

"Okay ..." she stares at him for a long moment, forcing life into her voice to hide the fear in her heart. "I was upset." And she holds his gaze and he, eventually, sees the mask fall, eyes wide and vulnerable in a face that looks like his wife.

"After dessert, you paid a certain compliment to Dr. Dussault's wife."

 _That's it?_

 _She's angry at him because he was being polite?_

 _This whole non-argument was because he was being nice?_

He turns slightly on his heels to look around the space he's in.

 _How did they get here?_

When he moved into his first apartment with Mark, his mother, insisted of choosing and arranging the furniture and decorations for them, she said, "Men make houses, women make homes, and I want you to have a home as nice as the one you grew up in."

It's still fairly bright in here, they haven't changed the bulbs since they bought this house - of course, the fuse hasn't worn, they've hardly ever used this kitchen. Even then, Addison's already remodelled it twice. In fact, she's remodelled the entire house twice and he lets her, even thought he thinks it's ridiculous.

"Derek?"

He turns his attention back to her.

His wife cannot be this ridiculous.

But she just crosses her arms, unmoved, cheeks turning a certain shade.

"You gotta be kidding. You're joking, right?"

"It was hurtful, Derek."

"To whom?"

She shakes her head. "To me." she says, rubbing her temples. He doesn't say anything else while she taps her foot nervously against the hardwood.

If she's waiting for him to say anything, he's not because he's waiting for her to elaborate on this absurdity.

So, he motions for her to continue, he's very annoyed and the words that she mutters are soft and quiet, but he hears it - the hurt evident, woven into the even tenor of her voice. "You told her she was the most gorgeous woman you'd ever met -"

"She's a supermodel."

"I don't care. You don't say that with your wife right next to you."

 _Shit!_

He knew he shouldn't have said that but he didn't even realise he had until it was already too late to take it back. But Addison had laughed, said something nice about her shoes so he didn't thought it was such a big deal.

He thought he was off the hook.

"Addison," he takes a deep exasperated breath, "I'm going to bed."

Sleep. Yes, sleep is what he needs.

Sleep makes everything better.

It's magic, really, because all you have to do is close your eyes and wake up to a brand new day and pretend the argument you were having with your wife the night before never even happened.

Her brows scrunch up in confusion. "Now?" she exclaims, "Derek, that's not fair. You wanted to know what I was feeling." she reminds him, "And I'm feeling hurt and humiliated -"

"And I think you're silly to feel those things." he cuts her off, leaves her standing alone by the refrigerator.

Walking, he shrugs at her when he reaches the archway; her shoulders tense back up and he watches her freeze in place.

Her heart thumps loudly because she's suddenly been hit with an epiphany. She's enlightened.

So, this is what it feel like to be Bizzy, to settle, to compromise, to be exposed, to forget how to wear ' _the mask_ '.

She's become her mother.

She's become the one person she promised herself she'd never be.

 _If you're so upset with Daddy, why are you making his favourite pie?_

 _Because after all of these years, I've forgotten how to wear my mask. So, now I must do things to distract Daddy. Like this pie. When I bring it out, he'll be so excited, he won't notice the devastation in my eyes._

"Are you coming to bed? Or are you just gonna stay down here and pout?"

She doesn't answer.

She's forgotten how to wear her mask. Or perhaps Derek's figured it out.

 _Devastation?_

 _Mm-hmm. It's an emotion, Addison. The kind you might feel when your friend calls to say your husband's LaSabre was seen in the parking lot of a certain motel, next to his secretary's Bonneville._

"Addison."

Her back is turned to him, and he pretends to not have noticed her slumped shoulders. And when she starts pulling out the cutlery from the kitchen drawer, lining them up neatly and precisely on the counter, he does the same with that too.

It easier to pretend.

 _See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil._

He's at a crossroad now.

He wants to sleep, but Addison is upset.

But if he stays with her here and continue to hash out whatever this is, he won't be able to sleep tonight.

But if he goes upstairs now -

"Addison, I'm heading to bed. You're coming or not?"

"Actually, I was just thinking about my mother and how insightful she was."

 _If a man knows what you're thinking, it gives him power over you. For example, if a man knows how much you love him, he'll take you for granted. He'll hurt you carelessly, cruelly, constantly._

 _Does Daddy know that you love him?_

"Insightful about what? You hate your mother."

He doesn't know exactly where she's going with this, but a few possibilities pop into his head and none of them ends up being pleasant for him.

She knew how to avoid this, this was avoidable. Bizzy predicted this. _You're not easy to please, dear._

 _You'll just end up breaking the boy's heart._

She was taught to use what she has, to use her assets to her advantage. But using sex as a distraction to their problems doesn't really solve anything. It only works for while, not in the long run. Actually, sex makes things worse becauseit does little more than slap a band-aid on a much deeper problem.

She isn't as wise as her. She doesn't know anything. At least, Bizzy knew how to trick the Captain with other ventures. All she knows is sex and that isn't working anymore.

 _Yes, I have told him repeatedly that I cannot live without him._

She did that one too, and too many times after that to even count.

She's become everything she doesn't want to be and she didn't even realise it.

She turns around, "I'll be right along." she says, the ghost of a smile finding its way to her mouth.

He blinks at her. The smile is lingering on her face, but there's still something twisted about it.

"I just want to, uh, tidy up first. Okay."

She'll have to ask his mother for the recipe on the Belgium waffles he loves so much.

That dessert is her last hope to save their marriage.

* * *

 _"You don't practice anymore?"_

 _"Um, no, I'm selling medical supplies now."_

 _"What happened?"_

 _"I lost my license. Things kind of got away from me, um, after everything that happened but - hey, look, it's been 2 months since my last drink. So, I'm good, Addie. Don't worry about me."_

 _"You know, saying that will only make me worry more, right?"_

* * *

No one is in _Room_ now, just things. Everything lying super extra still with dust falling and dark because Ma and me are at the hospital and _he_ is in the jail, where _he_ has to stay forever locked in.

I remember I'm in my favourite clothes, the pyjamas with the astronauts. I touch my leg through the cloth, it doesn't feel like mine.

All our stuff that was ours is locked in _Room_ too, except my T-shirt that I was wearing during escape, but Ma threw it in the trash and it's gone now. I looked for it at bedtime, a cleaner must have took it away.

Before Ma explained to me, I actually thought a cleaner meant a person is cleaner than everybody else, but she says it's a person who does the cleaning. And we don't call them that to their face because that's rude. _Manners_. But I never saw one, I think they're invisible like elves. I wish the cleaner would bring back my old T- shirt but Ma would only get cranky again.

We have to be in the _Outside_ world, we're not ever going back to _Room_ , Ma says that's how it is and I should be glad. But I don't know why we can't go back, even just to sleep.

I wonder do we have to stay always in the hospital or can we go in other parts of _Outside_ like _home_. Ma is always saying she wants to go back there.

 _Home._

Uncle Archer _brung_ me a book today. I think Ma told him to. It's a new one that I never heard before. It also has a bag on, that means it's brand new from the store. It smells and feels new too.

 _'The Velveteen Rabbit'_ was Ma's favourite book when she was a little girl. I can't imagine Ma being a little person. But she was, Ma has photos she'll show me later when we get _home_.

 _No way Jose._

Ma is not ever a little girl.

"I sold everything." Uncle Derek says to Ma looking down.

I don't know what he sold but I think it's bad because Ma is doing all the things she does whenever she's angry. She's messaging the sides of her head, breathing fast and pacing back and forth.

"You sold _everything_. The beach house, too?"

 _Is that a house in a beach?_

"Listen, _Addison_ -" that's Ma's other name but I like ' _Ma_ ' best. "I'm sorry. I thought - I didn't know -"

She do a big exhale. "I know ... I understand, I get it, okay." she takes deep breaths, then looks up at him. Her eyes are shiny. "I shouldn't be mad at you, Derek, and I'm not. But I ... but did you at least sold them above market value? Because _we_ did a lot of remodelling to the houses, especially the beach house and we hardly even ever got to use it."

They don't say anything to each other for a long time, it's silent, just staring and looking together and then, suddenly they both are laughing.

Now, I'm extra _extra_ confused because wasn't Ma just angry at Uncle Derek?

 _Outside_ really is backwards.

After, Ma is grinning at him and he says, "I'm so sorry, _Addie_." that's also Ma's name, "I know how much you loved the beach house." he takes Ma's hands and pulls her to a hug.

"Not as much as I -"

When the door knocks, Ma quickly stops, steps back and lets Dr. Blaine in. She puts her mask back on and then, mine.

Uncle Derek tells us he'll be waiting outside. I don't think he likes to be in the same room as Dr. Blaine, that's why.

He not looking very fierce now. Not like before.

"How're you doing, Christopher?"

"Good."

"Gimme five?"

His plastic white hand is up and he's waggling his fingers, I pretend I don't see it. _No!_ I'm not going to give him my five fingers, I need them for me. He still have his own fingers.

He tells me it's alright if I don't feel like it and to draw him a picture while he talks to Ma again.

I try to don't listen because Ma said eavesdropping is impolite and rude and bad manners. But then, I can't help it. It's only Ma; that's not eavesdropping because they don't talk about anything interesting, only about stuff like why she can't get to sleep, tachycardia and re-experiencing trauma.

I don't know what they all mean, just the Ma can't sleep part I understand. But I did not know that she can't even. I thought she only can't get to sleep in _Room_.

"I'll give you a low dose of Zaleplon to help with your sleep, just one before bed." he says and writes something on the chart. "I'll have the nurse -"

"Can I please hold on to my medications instead of the nurses giving them to me like I'm a sick person?"

"Ah, that shouldn't be a problem, as long as you don't leave them lying around your room."

"Christopher knows not to mess with pills."

 _Don't touch Ma's orange bottle._

 _Never ever more than two pills._

"Actually I was thinking of a few of our patients who've got histories of substance abuse - Now, for you, little man, I've got a magic patch."

"Christopher, Dr. Blaine's talking to you," says Ma.

He's holding out a white patch to me and tells me to roll up my sleeve because it is to put on my arm that makes a part of it feel like it's not there. Also he's brought cool shades to wear when it's too bright in the windows, mine are red and Ma's are black.

"Like celebrities." I tell her.

They go darker if we'll be in the outside of _Outside_ and lighter if we'll be in the inside of _Outside_.

Dr. Blaine says my eyes are super duper sharp but they're not used to looking far, far away yet, so I need to stretch them out by looking at the sideways window. I never _knowed_ there were muscles inside my eyes, I put my fingers to press but I can't feel them.

"How's that patch going?" says Dr. Blaine, "Are you numb yet?"

He peels it off gently and touches me under, I see his finger on my skin but I can't feel it.

Then, it's the baddest thing - he's got needles and he says he's so sorry but I need six shots to stop me from getting a very horrible sicknesses that could make me dead. That's what the patch is for, for making me not feel the needles stabbing into my arm.

But it's six needles, which means six times stabbing in.

"Six is not possible." I shout, then run in to the toilet bit of the room.

"They could kill you." says Ma, pulling me back to Dr. Blaine.

"No!"

"The germs, I mean, not the shots."

It's still no.

Dr. Blaine says I'm brave but I'm not, really. I used my brave all up doing Plan B.

I scream and scream.

Ma holds me on her lap while he sticks the needles in over and over, six time, and they do hurt because he took the patch off. I cry for it and in the end Ma puts it back on me.

"All done for now, I promise." Dr. Blaine puts the needles in a box on the wall called _Sharps_.

He has a lollipop for me in his pocket, a red colour, but I'm too full. He says I can keep it for another time.

Then, he asks me to show him the picture I drew. It's of _him_ in jail. The bars in the jail are very thick so he can never do an escape. _He's_ also biting them for wanting to get out.

There are ten bars, that's the strongest number in the whole _outside_ and it's my favourite number too. I also show Dr. Blaine how many counting I can do, and it is up to 1,000,000 and even higher if I wanted.

"A little boy I know, he counts the same things over and over when he feels nervous, and he can't stop."

"What things?" I ask.

"Lines on the sidewalk, lampposts, buttons, that kind of things."

I think that little boy should count his teeth, like I do, because they're always there. Unless they fall out.

"You keep talking about _separation anxiety_ ," Ma's saying to Dr. Blaine, "But why would we - I mean, Christopher and I are never going to be separated."

"Still, it's not just the two of you anymore, is it? You have your husband, your brother, family and friend."

She's chewing her mouth again.

They talk more about social reintegration and self-blame.

"The very best thing you did was you got him out early," says Dr. Blaine. "At five, they're still ... _plastic ..._ "

But I'm not plastic, I'm a real boy.

"... probably young enough to forget," he's saying, "which will be a mercy."

When Dr. Blaine leaves, I ask Ma what he means about me forgetting about _Room_ because I can't understand why I will. She keeps saying to not worry about that but I don't know how to not worry.

I yawn so huge it nearly knocks me over. My arm still hurts from where it wasn't numb. I ask if we can go back to sleep again and Ma says sure, but she's going to read the paper. I don't know why she wants to read the paper instead of being asleep with me.

* * *

 _"What's the mercy for?"_

 _"Huh?"_

 _"Dr. Blaine said I was made of plastic and I'd forget."_

 _"Ah, he figures, soon you won't remember Room anymore."_

 _"Am I meant to forget?"_

 _"I don't know."_

* * *

It's like a tidal wave had washed over her, voiding her of all her sins - _not literally, though she wishes it was that simple_ \- so now, she isn't sure what she's suppose to feel or whether whatever she's feeling is remotely normal.

Desperation, exhaustion and fear, all the norm for her today - God, she used to be so much better at hiding things from her husband and the world too. She used to be better at secrets and lies.

 _So very, very, very much._

But now that he's staying quiet, processing what she's just told him - hopefully that's all he's doing, _processing_ \- it's terrifying, the not knowing, not even the anticipation of knowing what he's going to say.

But expect the unexpected.

 _Right?_

It's been so long since she's had any resemblance of a conversation with Derek, hallucinations in _Room_ doesn't count ( _that's what isolation does to a person_.), but she's certainly remembered that whenever he's quiet, it seldom means well.

She stares at him with a wistful longing for the old days, never blinking, she tries to keep them to a bare minimum because one can't ever know their last - life is too short to not capture every waking moment like it's the last.

She can definitely attest to that, the unfairness.

 _But_ _really, who ever said that life is meant to be fair?_

Still, she doesn't ever want to blink. She'll relentlessly choose to never. She'll always chose that because she can't lose any more precious time.

 _Don't blink. Don't blink. Don't blink._

But then, she blinks.

 _Shit!_

She blinks again.

 _Shit!_

That's twice in three seconds.

Her eyes stings.

She's afraid she'll just so carelessly blink him away too, not again ( _and that last memory she has, before she had to blink him away for almost forever isn't pleasant at all._ ), that his _oh-so_ familiar and missed steadfast warmth and constant security beside her is just another ridiculous mirage.

Still, he doesn't leave, doesn't stand, nor does his leg itch towards his exist.

He's still here.

That's good.

 _Right?_

If he does ... leave, that is, then - then, she won't stop him.

She can't stop him, even if she wants to.

 _Don't go! Please, please ..._

There's a loud and heavy clang, metal against metal exclaiming, vibrating through her bones now as the metal door closes - _no, no, wait a minute_ \- she can't, she can't be back in _Room_.

She can't be back there. _No!_ This version is the real one. This isn't a nightmare.

She is _Outside._

She has been for four days already.

 _Right?_

She panics, she has to be _Outside_.

So then, she tries to scramble, as if to runaway, with her knees weak ( _it's good she's had the sense to sit down some few minutes ago or else she'd be working to stand back up._ ), she turns further away from the door and a groan escapes her throat, she thinks she's scared Derek too, by the way his blues searches through hers now.

 _Concern. Question. Worry._

 _Derek._

She's seeing a physical him so that means she's not back it _Room_ and this definitely isn't a nightmare. Realising, trying to remember the mechanics of breathing even after a tiny panic is difficult.

 _In. Out. In. Out. In. Out._

"I'm sorry." she says, quickly ( _sorry used to be the hardest word_.) and once she's gotten the science of breathing right again, his brow lifts in a question that she doesn't know how to quite answer and one that he, perhaps, is too afraid to ask.

 _What for?_

And this is all so _so_ wrong because the Derek she _knows_ \- knew ( _seven years and a girlfriend and he's not the same man who threw her out of their home anymore_.) wouldn't have been so tolerant and forbearing, he'd have run away, storm out, then come back apologetic and with a mountain of regrets of the things he would have said.

It was that simple.

There's that blank gray of the door over there, all it takes is three steps - _four for her, eight for_ _Christopher_ \- the drab walls and washed out faces outside, shadowed eyes and gaunt cheeks peering through a hazy light.

She stares at him, her lips parts in an attempt of his name - she can't, though, say it and doesn't give it another try. Instead she turns her head away from the source of the expected explosion, her heart pounding against the wall of her chest harder than it ever had before, jabbing at her insides as panic settles deep in her bones.

 _Don't._

She wonders, not for the first time, if her life is anything more than a sick joke.

There's a part of her, a large, aching open wound somewhere inside that isn't the least bit surprised by his reaction - _well, lack of one, she must rephrase_ \- because even behind those new creases of crows feet, frown lines and tear troughs ( _she's no beauty queen either._ ), that emphasises, like a slap on the face, on how much time have gone by without her, there's still a bit of the same ole Derek in _Derek_ _Shepherd_ that she was forced to leave behind years and years ago.

 _What's changed in his life other than New York and his relationship status?_

She can smell it in the air, mixing along with the clean, crisp, sterile and the smell of nothing but disinfectant hospital air, the silence is making her nauseous again. She wants to say there's a harlequin of guilt in there too, but she thinks it's mostly relief.

 _Relief that she's back?_

But, come on, she's the wife who's meant to be dead, whose resurrection is coming in between his relationship with his girlfriend - _oh, yes, Derek has a girlfriend_ \- now that sounds so strange because his last became his fiance and then, his wife.

She isn't sure whom she's suppose to feel sorry for.

 _Herself? Meredith? Derek?_

She glares back at him with pleading eyes this time, begging him for a ... _something_ , a response, any kind will do.

"Please."

She palms the scruff of his cheek, he hasn't shaved in days, and holds tight to the laughing warmth of his eyes, the sparks of gold that should be fanning through his irises.

Oh, they've darken so quickly.

She watches him watch her. His eyes are just as terrified as she imagine hers are, doesn't know what else to do as she holds on to his hand, his cheek, clinging to him literally for dear life.

She just got him back.

She just got to be back.

 _Wait, is he even hers to claim anymore?_

Her husband.

She doesn't want him to go back to Seattle - and by that she means Meredith. Because Meredith is Seattle and Seattle is Meredith.

But she's never going to tell him that.

She's trying to remember how to function properly here, _Outside_ , as quickly as she can so Derek won't give up on her. She's trying to get used to her past life again because - when your world is reduced to four concrete walls and a death sentence breathing down your neck, your vision and priorities completely skew to survival.

Living is for the privileged.

She's seen the world again and breathed it's fresh air, she doesn't ever want that to stop.

"Derek, did you -"

"Yes, I heard you, Addison." he cuts her off - hisses at her before she can even finish questioning.

She stops - _okay_ \- nods and blinks in surprise a few more times than what she thinks would be considered as normal.

His tone is unnecessarily harsh, he comes to conclude, sharp like he's trying to prove a point and rough around the edges with plain sadness and stupor.

 _Why did he have to say it like that?_

He's angry and the thing is, it's not her that he's mad at.

He doesn't enjoy knowing what she's been through. She's his wife after all. He doesn't like the images that wouldn't stop colouring his mind. She's still his wife. He doesn't know all yet or even the real ordeal in her own words, just what he's heard here and there from the media and it doesn't take a genius to paint a similar haunted picture.

It pains him. Of course he still loves her. He never stopped.

He hates that he's completely failed her as her husband, the one person who was suppose to be her protector.

Archer was right all along, he suppose, and he hates that too.

It angers him. It mortifies him so greatly because this is all his fault.

He did this to her.

He helped _him_ broke her.

He let _him_ lay hands on his wife.

While it angers him that there are some extremely diabolical people in this world - human beings can be so awfully cruel to one another - it also utterly shatters his soul that whenever Addison looks at him, it's with terror in her eyes or that she flinches when he touches her or there's fright in her voice whenever she asks him something or how small she stands now in her tall stature - _he_ broke her. That inhumane beast drained everything beautiful and vibrant about his wife and left him with the shell of a broken goodbye.

This isn't her. She's barely recognisable.

She's barely Addison.

Expect the unexpected.

 _Right?_

Because you hear stories about people being forced into captivity and isolation and torture for years and years and even decades, but who in their right minds would ever want to expect such a thing to happen to them or their loved ones or someone they know.

He never expected it.

 _If only ... if only ... if only ... he'd let her back in that night._

 _If only ... if only ... if only ... he'd calm down and really listen to her that night._

 _If only ... if only ... if only ... he'd known the pain of a loss sooner than experiencing it firsthand._

It was unintended, of course.

 _I'm sorry._

 _Did he just said that out loud?_

He don't think so.

He should apologise. But she's always been the more less stubborn one in the two of them when it comes to apologising.

He sits next to her in silence, trying his damnedest not to stare too long. She's wringing her hands together in her lap, her eyes looking anywhere but his own, and he watches as she bites at her bottom lip, chews on it for a few seconds before running her tongue along the abused area.

He wonders if she's going to talk at all - after all, it is her turn to say something, if they're working their way by taking turns.

"Addie," he says, quietly. He doesn't want to risk startling her. "I didn't mean it like that."

She gives him a small smile, and he knows it's forced, probably for his own benefit.

"Listen, Addison, I'm so sorry," he rushes out, his voice still low but with more power behind it. "I didn't mean to upset you. I ... I just don't know what I'm suppose to say. I was surprised." He stops, taking a breath finally. He doesn't realise that he's been staring off into space the entire time he was talking, unable to look at her, scared of what her reaction was going to be.

With a sigh, he makes himself face her again. She looks at him, her expression considerably more open than he's seen in a while.

"Don't apologise." she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What?"

She shakes her head. "You _can_ be angry at me." she mumbles to herself, slowly moving to loosen the grip she has on his hand but he still holds on, doesn't want to let go. "It's fine. I get it. I just - I just thought I should tell you. I thought it'd be the right thing to do."

"Addie ..." he says more seriously, his eyes trained on hers. "Addie, look at me." and he goes to move some of her hair away from her face, tucks them behind her ear, and waits for her to look at him.

"Addison."

 _Don't! Don't look!_

But, of course, she does. She's weak, so ridiculously weak when it comes to him.

She looks so torn with sad blue eyes and a frown. Dark circles have made a home underneath her eyes and looks as though they're there to stay. He hates when she's this vulnerable.

"Not at you. I can never be mad at you."

Never again, he must mean.

She's so ugly. The reflection of her own reflection looking back at her is the last thing she wants to see.

 _Seven years._

He thinks he wants to know what it was like. He thinks he ought to know, should know how she had survived in that - he overheard her say to the lawyer that it was like living in a shoe. As her husband, he feels like he should know everything that had happened.

But she doesn't want to tell him.

"You were right." he starts, but then he stops, nodding at her like she's not comprehending with what he's saying. "I wouldn't want to hear it from someone else."

Maybe it's her wrinkled face.

 _Does she look surprised? Are her brows arched? Scrunched? Confused?_

"I appreciate you telling me, Addison - I know it must be difficult."

She sees him reach forward towards her, she follows the large hand and her tongue catches between her teeth.

 _He wouldn't hit her, would he?_

But he only touches her cheek, strokes his thumb to that harsh slash of bone like he's wanting to rub away all the mistakes he has made.

If only it were that easy.

She purses her lips. It isn't particularly painful, there's just a fading bruise that's making her eyes water.

 _Secrets. Sins. Shame._

There's a silence between the two of them for a few minutes, both of them glancing at the other occasionally.

Her hands feels different, rougher. Her cheeks are pointer.

 _Useless. Unwanted. Ugly._

He lets go and her fingers ache when she curls them around air instead of him.

"So, what's the plan now? What are you planning to do?"

 _Oh._

She shrugs. She hadn't really thought that far out yet. Though, it's always there, always making its presence known, she's just always pushed it far, far away to the back of her mind.

It was never a priority in _Room_ because she was way too preoccupied and fixated on perfecting their escape.

And now that they've escaped, she's been avoiding acknowledging it like it's the bubonic plague. "I don't know." she sighs, placing her head in her hands. She's always been told not to put her elbows on the table – _be polite, Addison, where are your manners_ , Bizzy would say – but that's been long forgotten. "I've been trying to forget about it."

She knows her options. The doctors had said to give it a few days to think it through.

Well, it's been a few days now and she's only progressed to telling Derek.

"You're ... _pregnant_." he says quietly, slowly, hesitating on the last discerning word ( _which wouldn't be so, if they were in a completely_ normal _situation_.).

She's pregnant.

He stares into the vacant eyes before him and it breaks his heart into another thousand pieces. They were never so incredibly empty before, even at their end, they were still so full of life, full of fight and drive.

"I am. Yes. I ... if it were seven years ago and I hadn't had Christopher - _it's_ never what _it_ was once you have a child, you know." she looks up to the ceiling and a bitter laugh escapes her throat. It's really ironic in the ways the universe always targets her.

And the fact remains, once you have a child, abortion is never what it was.

 _Brute physiology._

Pregnancy, she realises by experience, is a tidal surge of psychoactive hormones, a blitzkrieg on the brain. Many women finds it pleasant, those lapping waves of oestrogen; some, like her, find it corrosive.

She hated and _hates_ it.

The idea that a child could, among other things, fulfill you might be as misguided as the idea that anything could.

But that doesn't mean she doesn't adore her son.

"Have you had an ultrasound? What'd the doctor say?"

"I have. When we first came in, I told them that I might be. They did a whole bunch of tests - Yeah, it's small, you know, considering ..." She takes a shaky breath, not daring to chance a glance in his direction, more so because she's so deathly embarrassed.

And it's not only about her anymore, it's also about Christopher and what's best for him. And what's best for him is for her mind and mental to be healthy.

But she can do pregnancy. _Right?_ She's already survived those nine months twice - only barely.

Christopher hasn't really ever seen her healthy and happy - the real her, before all this happened.

She wants him to meet the old her.

Because she can't do to her son what her parents did to her. She knows all too well what it's like to be neglected, to have their needs as children shoved six feet under. She can't replicate that same dissonance for Christopher. She's been given a second chance, she needs to make the best of it.

But the fact is, she wants to be what she is not. She wants to be the best kind of mother, penning her poems while sprinkling sugar on cookies, a house full of scat and sweetness, woman at once corporate and chaotic, artistic and organised, immersed and transcendent.

She _wants_ to be all.

She _needs_ to be all.

And that's why _want_ and _need_ are in two different contexts.

She shakes her head. "Derek, what do you think I should do?" she says, rubbing her temples.

"I don't know."

She looks up at him, her cheek resting against the point of her knee, true sympathy in his eyes, the darkness, shrouding his usual light. She doesn't know for sure when exactly they had dyed dull, probably _that night_ , with the sky as a backdrop and words spilling from his lungs and tears spilled from her.

 _She's pregnant._

He's sitting on his hands, not too sure what to do with them now. And he doesn't have to look to his left to know that there are teardrops on Addison's cheeks.

 _She's pregnant._

It hurts beyond his body and his bones, he doesn't want it to be true, doesn't want to think about how that happened, but, of course he does, he knows; it sinks through his pores and into his bloodstream, pulses and burns, with every shaky breath he takes.

He's angry again, almost at himself.

Sometimes she wishes she doesn't know Derek at all, how his mind works and what he's thinking - it's only black and white when it comes to him.

She ignores it when he moves a little too close because it should feel safe. She ignores it too that his eyes are boring into the side of her head, even as she pretends to be concentrating on pulling on the lint that isn't even there. She's trying with tremendous nimiety to stop the stubborn tears from continuing to fall down her cheeks.

 _Damned hormones!_

But her chest is still trembling, uneven breaths tripping past her lips, and Derek reaches for one of the hands wrapped around her knees, lets the kiss of their palms anchor her.

" _We_ don't have to decide anything now."

 _Twists. We. Twists._

There goes her heart and another round of broken sobs and she chews on the bottom of her lip to stop them, but it's so hard, it's so hard to breathe and cry, to function and cry, to stop the tears from pooling to the fabric of her pants. She doesn't even have the energy to lift her hand and wipe them away. But most of all she's just so fucking embarrassed because he's her husband and this baby isn't even his.

She's so ashamed that she's gotten herself to this point.

 _Again._

"How far?"

He watches her steadily, her eyes never once meeting his. He doesn't blame her, and he's secretly thankful she doesn't look at him. He knows he wouldn't be able to deal with the tears in her eyes or the quiver of her lips as she tries to get the words out.

"Fourteen weeks yesterday."

"Fourteen weeks." he repeats, doesn't hide the surprise out of his voice.

She barely even looks like she's a month pregnant, let alone in her second trimester. _Fourteen weeks and a day_. And he can't help his eyes from lingering on her midsection a lot longer than he's suppose to.

 _No. She is pregnant._

"There's plenty of time to come to a decision _before_ ..." he trails off, bringing his hand up to rub at the back of his neck.

 _Before ... what?_

Before she gets too attached.

Before the twenty-fourth week.

Before she doesn't want to.

 _Before ... before ..._

"I'm sorry." her eyes soften as another tear fall down her cheek and this time he watches it dissipate with all the others. "I didn't want to ... _do_ anything, Derek."

He holds her gaze.

 _What the hell is she talking about?_

"You have to believe me. I, I didn't have a choice."

Her muscles are crunched tense. She doesn't want to look at him, but she feels the urge to explain. She doesn't know why, no reasonable explanation, but she just knows she shouldn't steal a glance.

She can't. It's embarrassing. This is so embarrassing.

He's looking at her silently, his heart breaking with each word she says.

"I had to be ... _good_ , for Christopher's sake, so _he_ wouldn't take him from me ... I couldn't trust that _he_ wouldn't because ... I know _him_ \- I know _he_ would." she stops to take a breath, closing her eyes to let the tears spill.

 _I had to be good._

 _For Christopher's sake._

 _So, he wouldn't take him from me._

 _I know him._

She knows him.

That hit him hard, he thinks he's going to be sick.

 _She knows him._

"Addie, look at me."

She doesn't want to, but she also doesn't have the energy to resist him when he cups her chin and twists it himself, forcing their eyes together.

She wipes hers clean.

Derek sighs, his grip loosening and thumb brushing along the line of her jaw. "You don't ever have to explain yourself. I ... understand." he almost whispers, and she doesn't speak the words that spins around her mind.

"I know you _wou -"_

 _Wouldn't?_

Yeah ... but she did.

She expects it to hurt, rip open a wound that had never healed, but it only seals it closed. It's familiar, this routine, and she picks up the moves like it hasn't been years since they last played this game.

"Wouldn't." she finishes for him, to which they both smile sadly.

 _Mark._

But even he can admit that the thing that happened with Mark was completely different.

"I'm so sorry."

 _Hasn't he forgiven her?_

He lets his hand linger there a little while longer before it finally falls and she nestles herself just a fraction further, a respectable distance suffocating them with its ample air.

It's awkward.

It's like they're both new to this, to each other, like they haven't already known the other's most deepest, darkest secrets, like they haven't done this for almost a third of their existence, like they haven't ever loved the flaws one had to offer.

She wishes he'd forgive her already.

But it is said that forgiveness is the most unnatural of human emotions, especially when the memories are freshly opened wounds.

She also wishes he was shouting, she wishes he would grab her, shake her, smack her, storm out, or even scream inches from her face.

 _He_ would have done all of that.

Anger, she knows how to deal with. It is his kindness that she cannot handle, the shattered glass in his own voice that splits through her skin. She has never deserved his devotion, his concern.

It strikes an odd feeling of hope in her chest, even though it shouldn't. _It really_ _shouldn't_. But she and Derek used to fight all the time. Before he stopped caring, that is. It wasn't unhealthy, not severe or necessarily damaging. They were both such intense individuals that when thrown together, the passion between them could be so good, so fierce, that it sometimes burned too bright. In an argument, they were only bound to explode.

He would yell, she would scream, she would shove him, and he'd catch her by the wrists, hold on until she stopped. Most of their fights, whether massive or petty, ended with him pinning her to a wall, the couch, the bed, feeding the fire inside of her with the drape of his body until they were both left cooling in the embers.

Few things in her life were better than making up with Derek after a fight.

Their passion was always burning, so alive and vivid. The fact that their bad moments together could be just as rich as their best only reaffirmed how beautiful their relationship was to her.

Well, that was before he stopped working in their marriage and before she doused what's left of it in gasoline and lit it on fire.

That was that and _this_ is her reality - she's fourteen weeks pregnant and she doesn't know what to do.

 _Abortion?_

 _Adoption?_

She doesn't know what to do, though what she does know is that she doesn't want to be a mother to another life that's wholly dependent on her.

She's not ready for another responsibility.

It occurrs to her that either way, no matter what she decides, she is going to regret it.

She bites at the inside of her cheek, willing herself to finish without losing too much of her composure. "I think I want an abortion."

She said it more to see what it sounded like, to try it on, but when Derek turns to her, she sees something hopeful in his eyes.

"Are you sure?"

And at that moment, she sees this baby receding from her, she sees this baby getting very small and distant - far away from her like it should.

She brings her eyes back to his .

There is something so sad and strained in his face and ... he wants her to get an abortion.

 _Adoption, then?_

Adoption is way too messy. Too many emotions and chemical releases and nurturing to factor in.

Abortion is the easier out. It's like a reset button.

Nodding, she sucks in a jagged breath to stop the tears from starting again, from drowning her in grief instead.

 _Yes, she's sure._

Because they say love is inevitable and she's still afraid of that.

Because loving Christopher was inevitable too.

But death is inevitable too.

The sooner, the better.

 _Right?_

She needs to protect what definitely is human at the expense of that which is not yet.

He sees the slightest of nods. She's sure she wants it and he's ashamed of the feeling he's feeling.

 _Relief._

"Is it the right thing to do? Because I don't know if it is. I just keep thinking about Christopher - my entire pregnancy with him was very _different_. I was miserable. I hated everything about it, but I felt something. I cared. But now I ... don't even care about this baby." she whispers, and he watches as fresh tears make their way to her eyes. "If I had a choice, would I have not had him?"

She's still looking down, but he moves closer, wraps an arm around her shoulder. She can't think like that because when she was pregnant with Christopher, she was bound to a thirteen by thirteen and all alone. So, it was very different.

"You can't - don't do that to yourself, Addie. You love him. He's here and it's all because of you. That was the past, it doesn't matter now and Christopher knows that you love him so much."

He pulls her into his side and rubs soothing circles between her shoulder blades, whispering calming words to her as her body shakes.

"I know it's a lot to take in." he says, gently putting his finger beneath her chin to bring her eyes to his. "It's okay. It's completely alright to feel overwhelmed right now, okay?"

She nods.

"I'm right here. Whatever you decide, I'm not going anywhere, so you can relax. We don't have to decide anything right now."

She slowly lowers her head, letting it rest against his his chest, like they used to when either of them is upset or had a bad day. _Like before_. He takes the hand rubbing circles on her back and pauses it for a second before starting again, only this time it's not circles. He uses his index finger to trace out different shapes, different words of things he knows she likes, or just anything he can think of. She figures it out sometimes, and other times she just gains comfort from the motions.

" _You_ don't have to stay, you know."

" _You_ don't have to be alone, you know."

"I'm not." It's barely a whisper, so quiet he's not even entirely sure he's heard her correctly, but then she's looking up at him, eyes puffy and conflicted. "I have Christopher and Archer and ... my dad."

He smiles at that, because even though there's not much conviction in her voice, she's said it. She knows she doesn't have to be alone, and that's a good thing, a sign that maybe she'll let him in in the long run and prove to her that having someone to confide in and lean on is better than shouldering the weight of the world on her own.

They sit in silence for a while, neither one saying anything. He gets up, reluctantly leaving her side, and heads to get a glass of water. She hasn't asked for anything but he pours her one too.

"Water?" he asks as he sits down, reclaiming the seat next to her.

She looks as though she's going to refuse, but then she lifts a hand out and takes the glass. "Thanks." she smiles up at him.

He nods and wraps his arm around her again, grinning to himself when she doesn't stiffen this time, just leans into him. She relaxes, and he can feel some of the tension leaving her body.

"Derek?"

He hums in response and peers down at her. "I think you should go back to Seattle." she says, the sound slightly mumbled as she takes another sip of the water. But he hears her. He hears her and he has to will his heart to stay in his chest.

"You have a life in Seattle and a great career. Derek, you're Head of Neurosurgery - you did it, _honey_. It's what you've always dreamed of - we've talked about it since Med school, remember - and I'm really proud of you. I really am. And besides ... you have Meredith waiting for you.

She sounds ... _nice_."

' _Nice_ ' is all the word she could think of, considering the intel on his twelve year old girlfriend ( _not her words._ ) is from Archer.

 _What can she say? He's understandably biased._

He pulls her tighter into him, lets out a sigh into her hair. "You are my life, Addie. You've always been and I should've told you that sooner ..." He only left New York because of her; the constant every day reminder of her were just too painful to ignore anymore. The irony, the move to Seattle only became the awakening of why he was there and she was not. Another every day reminder.

"I don't want to go, Addie." he whispers into the silence.

She lifts a hand to his face, cups his cheek. "I don't really want you to either."

Her head is lifted up, looking at him now, and he sees a lightness to them that he doesn't think he's seen before. It's something he knows he wants to keep in her eyes, permanently, replace the sadness that's ever so present. And he turns to brush his lips to the heel of her palm.

She looks up at him with a smile. His eyes are so blue and expressive, the concern pouring out of them as he stares back at her. It's something she's remembers, something that's still so sweet. "Do you ever think that maybe if things had played out differently _that night_ ," she breathes, "Perhaps then, we'd still be together and none of _this_ would've happened? Do you ever think about that?"

He's spent twenty, thirty, hundreds of nights with her over the years, with no regrets, but there's only been one that he'd like to have do-over on. That night, maybe he could've brought her back in sooner or not threw her out at all. He's ashamed of what he did. "All the time." he says. He's not lying. "That night ... everything changed, didn't it?"

"I'm sorry."

They're quiet for a few more seconds, and she watches as his gaze trails from her eyes down to her lips. Her breath catches in her throat before he even leans down, his lips brushing against her cheek for a moment longer and he feels her heated skin under his mouth and the moisture there isn't sweet.

He's still a gentleman and he dab at her eyes with a handkerchief and she lets out the breath she's holding and he can see a smile on her face as she slowly lowers her head back down, resting against his chest.

Her hand slides into his like it's where it's always belonged, he smiles to mirror hers. He can't help himself, can't help the surge of elation that bursts through his system. There's still a lot for them to get through, but right here, right now, he's content.

Because she's alive and resting comfortably on his chest and he wouldn't want it any other way.

* * *

 _ **End of chapter. But more to come.**_

 _ **What do you guys think?**_

 _ **Did you guys see the hints/clues?**_

 _ **Did you see it coming, Addison pregnant?**_

 _ **What should she do? I don't even know. I'm still trying to figure it out.**_

 _ **If you guys would like to help me with that, please leave a review. Your input would be of great help.**_

 _ **Thanks for reading everyone. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.**_

 _ **Review!!!! ;D**_


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